Lost at Sea
by LittleMender
Summary: He had missed her, even though she hadn't really gone anywhere.  Missed her arguing and needling, her fatalistic sigh when she went along with his secret plans, her widened eyes when she caught on. Yes, he had been glad to get her back.
1. Chapter 1

**I've had this on a back burner for two months, and I've been tossed between lack of commitment, lack of direction, fake nonchalance and fear that all of the time I've put into puttering with it will amount to nothing. I've been putting off finishing it because events in the show are moving so quickly and seemingly randomly. Today I realized that I need to finish this or jump ship. So, I decided to just start posting the thing and see what happens—like a lunatic without a 'chute. I'm pathetic. No wonder I don't own any part of The Mentalist. And I think the title is more about my state of mind than the actual story. And that's all I'll say about that.**

**LOST AT SEA**

1. THE CALM

"You're wearing a skirt!"

He blurted it without thinking. There was a time it would have bothered him to give away something so small as his awareness of her attire, but they were beyond that after working together for seven years. He was fine with her knowing he paid attention to her, even to the smallest detail. And, he was fine with the whole blurting thing—some of their most interesting conversations had started that way.

Lisbon had been in depositions nearly all morning. Nothing was happening, his own off-the-book investigations were temporarily stalled, and Jane had been bored, waiting for her to get in. He had heard the elevator ping while he was making his tea and had just known it was her. Grace's "Hey, Boss" had confirmed it, and he had felt the light-heartedness that usually accompanied her arrival. He was fine with that, too. Lisbon's arrival always brought so many varying opportunities.

"Good morning to you, too, Jane."

She didn't look up from the form she was filling out. There was no case, and it was eleven thirty. She had known that it wouldn't be long. In her peripheral vision she saw him move toward the couch—that silly couch—he had bought for her office. He said he had gotten it for her, but she knew that could only be partly true. He seemed to sit on the thing as much as she did and lie on it even more. It really was a beautiful couch, perfect with the pillows and chenille throw he had picked out, and she was just getting to the place where she had come to appreciate the comfort of it, especially now that they practically had it broken in. The first time they had sat on it together for a chat she had noticed there were two long seat cushions instead of three shorter ones. It was made for two.

He sat down and, raising the cup to his lips, looked at her over the rim. She had crossed her legs and from this angle, he could just see the toe of the shoe that seemed to peek around the corner of her desk suspended in mid-air. Pumps with a slight platform with, he would guess, about three, three-and-a-half inch heels.

"Those shoes aren't exactly made for runnin'," he quipped.

"Not intending to do any."

"What if we get a case?"

"I'll make you run. It'll be good for you."

He snorted at her in response. She still hadn't looked up. Her hair was different, too. It was up but not in the government-issue-by-the-book bun. She had sort of swept it up as if she didn't care, and it had . . . _things_ of hair sticking out with light tendrils hanging down to frame her face. Messy but nice. Feminine.

"Your hair looks good today. Very Austenian."

She did look up then and smiled brightly at him. "Thanks." Back to the form.

"So, who were the deposing attorneys?" As if he didn't already know.

Her writing barely hitched, not even a pause really, like she just knew what was coming.

"Defense was Forrest, and prosecuting was . . . Sam Burton." She couldn't help the small smile that nearly formed at her lips. And she just barely, slightly, only the tiniest bit, dipped her head.

"Ah, Forrest. Old guy. Thinks he's Matlock. And . . . Burton, did you say? Tall, dark and handsome? Looks a bit like Rigsby only without the mad crush and confused expression?"

She looked up at him again, her attempt at chastisement ruined by the smile. "Oh, stop."

"Stop what, my dear? I don't follow."

It was all right, calling her "my dear". It didn't really mean anything. It was part of how they did things. He invaded her space, she barged in on him in the attic, he sat on the couch and watched her work, she tried not to look pleased with him when he was behaving well or amused by him when he wasn't, and he plied her with meaningless but semi-sincere endearments and sipped his tea. It was all very benign and genteel and shallow.

"You shouldn't say stuff like that about Rigsby. He's still having a hard time giving up Van Pelt. And I prefer to think of that expression as inquisitive."

"You wouldn't cut him the slack if he weren't tall, dark and handsome—"

"Jane." There was the warning—he wouldn't go too far. This time.

"—and didn't remind you of your brothers."

Her brow nearly creased into a frown, but she inhaled deep, and her face relaxed. Her head tilted into the slight half-shrug as if to say, "_Okay, you got me there._"

He sighed and dropped the subject of Sam Burton. He really didn't like the man, pompous ass. He knew Lisbon didn't really like him either. It was just a game they played sometimes. He couldn't help chuckling to himself. She didn't look up at him, didn't ask why he'd laughed. He knew sometimes she just didn't want to get anything started. Did she really think he would do something so immature as try to draw her in with a feigned laugh or a forced sigh? He smiled into his cup. "_Okay, you got me there._"

She dropped her pen into her pencil cup and stuffed the paper into the waiting file folder then rose from her desk and walked to the file cabinet that stood by where he sat in the corner of the couch made for two. Nudging his legs to get him to move them out of her way, she opened the drawer and put the folder away. She walked back to her desk, but not to sit down. He watched her pick up her phone and keys and drop them into her bag as she lifted her jacket from where she'd slung it over one corner of the back of her chair.

"Where are you going?"

"Lunch," she replied as if it were obvious.

"Just let me get rid of my cup."

"Not you lunch, us lunch. _Me_ lunch. As in you're not going."

She was bemused by his expression, a spark of curiosity mingled with disappointment. It was really kind of touching.

"Be back in an hour!" she sang over her departing shoulder to no one in particular. The spark of curiosity went away.

He lay back on the couch, tea cold and forgotten, closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest, thinking over events of the past few weeks. Hightower had been framed for two murders, putting her directly in the crosshairs of LaRoche's sketchy investigation and his own suspicion as Red John's CBI mole. In the wake of her escape—_eluding the authorities_, he thought with a self-satisfied smile at his engineering her flight _and_ managing to keep the Red John connection hidden from everyone involved—LaRoche had been assigned to take over her duties, resulting in Lisbon's temporary demotion as head of the unit. He smiled, remembering the fire in her eyes and the edge to her husky voice when LaRoche had approached her at a recent crime scene, a driving range frequented by the newly-dead Dr. Newton. The new boss had handled the whole thing in a terribly ham-handed way. He had broached the subject of Hightower, asking if Lisbon had heard from her and wanting to know about the escaped felon's children. Lisbon still stung over how the whole thing had fallen out, and Jane was sure that even now she harbored serious doubts as to her former boss's—and newly-minted friend's—guilt in the matter of the murders of Todd Johnson and Manuel Montero. It wasn't surprising that Lisbon had left him standing there, gaping after her. To his credit, the big man had tried valiantly to regain his lost footing.

"_I wasn't finished, Agent Lisbon."_

"_Agent LaRoche, this is a crime scene. I'm busy," she had said, as if that would finally dismiss him. But the man simply would not be put off._

"_Curious. Your disinterest in finding Hightower."_

"_Are you for real? We've had to endure your surprise visits for months. You named your killer. She's on the run. Why do you keep showing up at my crime scenes?"_

"_Because this morning I—"_

"_I don't even want to hear it! The second Hightower's replacement is announced, I'm going to put in a formal request to keep you away from me!"_

And that's when LaRoche had dropped the bomb. He was calling the shots, she was out and Cho was in.

Jane had known what had transpired that morning, of course—had watched undetected as LaRoche set up shop in Hightower's office. He now realized waiting for the perfect time to let Lisbon in on the change of command had been a grave miscalculation on his part. As LaRoche approached, he had seen the clouds forming on Lisbon's brow, but like all other forces of nature and acts of God, he had been unable to stop it. Part of him hadn't even wanted to. He got a real thrill out of watching Lisbon verbally peel the skin off of someone else. It would've raised goose pimples on his flesh if he had not been woefully past that sort of thing. It hadn't surprised him when LaRoche retaliated, although the punishment had been a bit of a sting. But what _had_ surprised him was the duration. For what Lisbon had done and said, a man like LaRoche would have wanted more than a pound of flesh and not been completely wrong for it. But his requirement amounted to a few ounces of discomfort at most. Lisbon had been reinstated only hours later. With a commendation, no less.

He wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. He was glad she'd been put back in her proper place so quickly. He had loved having the day to himself, working his schemes—and there had been plenty of them—knowing Lisbon was practically only a thought away if he needed her. Twice she had rushed in; once to save his neck and once to arrest the murderer just in time. _Now who's the psychic?_

But he had missed her, even though she hadn't really gone anywhere. Missed her arguing, her assured needling, her fatalistic sigh when she went along with his plan even when she didn't know what the plan was, the widening of her eyes when she caught on, her pleasure at figuring out what he was thinking. Yes, he had been glad to get her back.

But something was different. And it was LaRoche. The new boss _liked_ Lisbon. Right off the bat. Before the pitch, even. Jane knew there wasn't anything unprofessional or inappropriate about it—LaRoche was as close to asexual as a man could get. But there was no denying he understood Lisbon and held her in high regard. She was smart, true and honest, and Jane knew that while those were only three of the qualities he most prized in her, they were _the_ three that would matter to LaRoche.

And Lisbon liked him back. He was firm but fair—qualities she liked in a boss, looked for even. Jane wondered if those were qualities she had admired in Bosco. A frown marred his deceptively peaceful features. No, in Bosco she had admired the cop—tough and fearless, his unrequited affection for her easy to deny except for her nearly overwhelming repugnance at the idea of disappointing or hurting him. Because of Jane, she had managed to do both. But again, the time-out had been very short lived.

Seems none of the men in her life could do without her for long.

But her relationship with LaRoche was nothing like her relationship with Bosco had been. For one thing, LaRoche would never curse in front of a lady. And even though Lisbon's language was often salty enough for the entirety of the bureau, LaRoche would never curse in front of Lisbon.

Jane smiled to himself again. LaRoche was more fatherly toward her—guiding her, discerning when she knew to take the lead and letting her, listening to her and respecting her. They were actually a lot alike, or their thinking was, at any rate. They both wanted the truth, wanted to exhaust all lines of questioning, wanted to catch the bad guy. There was, however, one fundamental difference in which LaRoche was more similar to Jane himself. He was prepared to stoop much lower than Lisbon to reach his goal. He hoped Lisbon realized that. Maybe it wouldn't hurt for him to very subtly look out for her on that point. For the most part, LaRoche and Lisbon worked together so well because their thoughts were, more often than not, in sync. LaRoche trusted Lisbon, and she trusted him.

The frown was back. He had never seemed to reach that elusive objective: acquiring Lisbon's complete and unqualified trust. It would have been useful, but he could afford to be honest with himself on the point that it just would have been nice. Even though they seemed more familiar with one another now, he knew the apparent closeness they projected was only an illusion. He had only come to realize in recent months that this was as true on Lisbon's part as his own, for all her preaching on being a family. For her there could be friendship, even affection without trust but there could be no real . . . He supposed _intimacy_ was the word he was searching for.

The frown deepened. That was not a situation in which he could afford to find himself with anyone, especially . . . He was off track. If he had to think like Lisbon before she trusted him so completely, he was a lot further from his objective than he had believed. If in fact that were the case, it was a goal he may never reach. In light of his own many deceptions over the past year, it may by now be a very moot point, dead in the water. His lips pressed into a firm line, and he realized that if anyone were watching him, they would at least wonder at his train of thought. He schooled his features into a look of complete repose.

Yes, LaRoche was like the father Lisbon may have needed, even though the man could never have physically or psychologically produced a daughter like her. And that was fine with Jane. Goodness knows _he_ had no intention of playing daddy to her little girl. Lisbon would have an aneurism if he even tried. No, he liked things exactly the way they were. Something niggled at the back of his mind at that, but he ignored it. Nigglings concerning Lisbon were best treated that way.

Something had crossed Jane's mind that now distant morning, watching LaRoche awkwardly trying to take the place that maybe deep inside he wasn't sure he should be occupying, and he hadn't thought about it since. Now it brought another smile to his lips.

He would tell Lisbon about the Hummel figurines he had seen on LaRoche's end table just inside the man's front door the night he had helped Madeleine escape under the guise of taking J.J. a bottle of Scotch. She would ask why he was there, of course, and not be completely satisfied with his explanation. Her suspicion would nearly get the better of her, but she would realize the futility of asking him questions he had no intention of answering and give it up, allowing her desire to just let something be easy and her penchant for deniability to sweep it under that now rather lumpy rug she kept in her psyche just for him.

He couldn't wait to see the sparkle in her eyes over their shared, mischievous, almost dirty little secret about the big boss's love of Hummels. But he would. Maybe not right here on their couch, but he would wait.


	2. The Storm

2. THE STORM

"What do you mean, you gave him LaRoche's list?"

Her voice was flat and hard. She had been pleasantly surprised when Virgil Minelli had called her for lunch. She heard from him rarely and saw him even less, though she knew he kept tabs on her. She had really been looking forward to this. He was alert, and his eyes were clear. When she had seen him a few months earlier, he hadn't looked so good.

"Teresa, don't go off—"

"_What do you mean, you gave him LaRoche's list_?"

She was getting better at controlling her temper after all these years. Not long ago, so close to the boiling point, she would have been yelling at him by now instead of that low, controlled growl. Maybe Jane had been good for her, at least in some small way.

"He came to me around Christmas. He was desperate—," Virgil ignored her scoffing, "—said he couldn't go to you."

He watched the hurt flit across her features. "Teresa, he said it would put you at risk."

"What, Virgil? What about my knowing he wanted the list could possibly put me at risk?"

"It's not the list itself." He paused, putting off having to say it as long as he could. He still found it hard to believe, but Jane had sounded so positive.

"He said Todd Johnson was part of Red John's operation."

She froze, her expression unreadable, her hands still where they rested on the tabletop. He rushed on before she could interrupt with questions or recriminations.

"He said Red John or one of his associates murdered Johnson, probably to keep him from talking. He wanted the list so he could investigate on his own."

She was still trying to process Jane's theory that Johnson was connected to Red John. Could that be possible? It would explain Jane's moodiness after the E.M.T.'s death. She brought her attention back to what Virgil was saying.

"Look, I knew it wouldn't get him very far. His name was on it. _Rigsby's_ name was on it, for heaven's sake!" He toyed with his fork. "He just looked so keen, so . . . earnest." Even as the word left his mouth, he realized how stupid it sounded.

"Had you been drinking?" Her voice was low again but without the growl.

He looked up at her as he leaned back in his chair, his tongue rolling against the inside of his cheek. He had called her so he could come clean.

"Yes."

"But you're not drinking now?"

"No."

Her shoulders relaxed some, and he realized she had noticed and been worried but hadn't wanted to say anything.

"Jane introduced me to someone. May . . . lovely woman." He was toying with his fork again, relaxing against the table.

"May . . . Nelson?"

Lisbon remembered her. She was the AA group leader for the Santa Claus that was murdered just before Christmas. Poor woman had been in love with the man, but his obsession with the suit he wore and everything it represented had kept them apart. She saw that a lot in her work—lives gone wrong, out of balance, with their loves following after. She watched the almost silly smile form on Virgil's lips. He was obviously still seeing her.

"Well, I guess Jane's good for something besides closing cases."

His eyes jerked to hers in surprise. Her gaze hadn't left him, hadn't shifted away since he brought up the list. Well, since the beginning of the lunch as a matter of fact. He was really off his game. This slip of a girl that had wormed her way into his affections over the years, who he thought of as something close to a daughter, had been studying him, reading him. He knew it wasn't a coincidence she had used just those words. Jane's strong suit was subtlety, but Teresa possessed a quality of stealth that was just as formidable—even more so in a way when combined with her proclivity for keeping secrets rather than making a show of what she knew. He was glad he'd decided on complete honesty today.

"What else?" She was resigned now. All business, like she was questioning a cooperating witness.

"He's called a couple more times, wanting help with some other things. Once with questions about some kind of behavior prediction model the Feebs have been using, run by a woman named—"

"Montague?"

He drew back again and turned his head slightly, his eyes moving up and down her.

"That's right . . . Montague. Apparently she gave him a report on Red John."

He watched as irritation rolled over her.

"She assisted on a case a while back." _When he bought the couch for me_. "He spent quite a bit of time with her in the field, showing her how he did things, letting her watch him work his magic."

"He ditch you?"

"Yeah, but it gave me time to actually work the case. Ended up saving his butt."

He nodded his understanding. Jane and Teresa's working relationship had been more than somewhat beneficial for both of them over the years, but he knew which of the two had gotten the most out of it. Jane really was an ass. So was he.

"A few days ago, he called looking for May."

Her brow quirked at him, and he was glad to see the bemused smile on her lips.

"No, she's not living with me, but when she's not at work we do usually spend a lot of time together. Jane called the clinic first then my place."

"Wanting . . . ?"

He inhaled deeply, steeling himself to continue. This next part would be painful for the both of them.

"May enjoys practicing privileges at several hospitals and clinics around the state. That's what Jane called about. May told me to call you when she found out, but I'd already decided to do just that. I don't want her dragged into all of this."

"What did he want, Virgil?" Her tone was flat and harsh again. She didn't want to beat around the bush.

"He wanted access to a psychiatric patient . . . Kristina Frye."

The look on her face was a mixture of question and something else that made him hurry to reassure her—he wasn't exactly sure of what or why.

"I don't think there was ever any real interest there. He was too . . . "

He let the sentence hang, studying her for a moment. There were too many ways to fill in the blank, one just as troubling as another.

"I think he believes there's still something she could tell him about Red John; that if he could just talk to her, have the freedom to do whatever he wants without interference from the bureau—"

"Or from me?" Now the hurt in her eyes was unmistakable. Although he was happy to see her, he had dreaded this meeting because he knew how angry she would be and how unpleasant it would be for him. Now he would give almost anything to have not been even partly responsible for that look in her eyes. He hated it that he wasn't finished.

"There's something else."

She watched him with trepidation as he pulled an envelope out of his pocket.

"This came in the mail day before yesterday. She wanted me to give it to you. I figured she must be pretty desperate to get a message to you if she was willing to trust me. Probably knew I wouldn't say anything, wouldn't want it to look bad for you. Anyway, you may be able to get some answers there, some direction."

She took the sealed envelope from him. The outside was blank, and her fingers trembled as she opened it, suspecting the sender's identity. _Teresa_ curved across the top left corner of the page in strong, almost regal script. She would know that handwriting anywhere. Overwhelming curiosity, relief and need pulled her eyes down the paper, the tale of deception, intrigue and escape unfolding in a few paragraphs. Madeleine wrote the way she talked. Lisbon had to smile over the comforting familiarity of it, evidence that she had never been wrong about the truth of the whole unsavory matter. The last line brought her back to the reality of the present and its own dilemmas.

_I thought you should know._

Virgil could only guess at the contents of the letter. Judging from her expression, he hadn't been too far off the mark.

"What do you intend to do?" He didn't know if she'd had time to formulate a plan.

"Everything I need to do. Everything I should've done." Her determination didn't surprise him.

There was more he felt he should say, but as if sensing the direction of his thoughts and not wanting to hear them spoken aloud, she gracefully and almost imperceptibly shifted the conversation to safer things—May, his retirement, changes at the CBI, but that only briefly. He felt guilty about all of that. While he had known it had to be, he had often thought he shouldn't have left her.

After a while they stood to say their good-byes. She hugged him and started to move away, but he pulled her back to him and wrapped his arms all of the way around her holding her to himself as tightly as he could. He had really not wanted to lose this connection. Her arms circled around his waist, and she turned her head sideways to lay it against his shoulder, breathing in the clean, fumeless scent of his jacket. He knew what she was doing, and he let her, glad he didn't have to be ashamed. It was like a punch to the gut when he realized why she hadn't come around after the last time. She pulled back after a few minutes and rose up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek and felt him savor the contact before she leaned back to look him in the eye.

"I'll call you—"

He nodded at her, knowing she meant it, as well as the slight hint of a threat. _You better not have given him anything more without telling me_.

"—and you call me if you think you should."

"Loud and clear," he said pointedly, wanting to make sure she knew he understood her meaning. He jostled her in his arms affectionately before letting her go. "And you the same."

He watched her walk away, her heels kicking up little puffs of river sand. The wind was picking up, making waves on the usually calm water. He didn't know why he had chosen to meet her at the same riverfront café where he had met Jane. _Returning to the scene of the crime_. He hoped he hadn't just committed another.


	3. Against the Rocks

3. AGAINST THE ROCKS

She was back. She had said she would be back in an hour, but it had been that and half again. He had gone out and gotten himself some lunch, not feeling up to the cheeseburger menu of the bullpen. Now he was sitting in her office, eager for the game—would she or wouldn't she tell him where she'd been and with whom? And just how hard would he have to work to get it out of her? The bag of cookies he'd brought back from the sandwich shop—an assortment of the team's favorites—rested on the couch next to him. He didn't want her to think he'd just been sitting on the couch all this time, waiting for her.

He had mentally replayed their earlier conversation while he sat at lunch. She hadn't dressed up for the depositions and Sam Burton. She had dressed up because she was going to lunch with someone special. Not a love interest but someone really special to her. He had pondered it only briefly, realizing that without more information, he didn't have any idea who that might be outside of someone at the bureau, and she wouldn't have worn a skirt for anyone there. Sad, really. She looked good in a skirt. And the shoes made her calves flex so attractively when she walked. Lisbon really was lovely underneath the hard shell. He had thought many times that she was doing the men of California a great disservice.

She hadn't looked at him since she walked into the office—just stood at the side of her desk, staring across the room out her window. One hand raised slowly to the back of her head and pulled at the clip that had magically been holding up that beguiling hairdo. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, and she was instantly more her everyday self.

"I had lunch with Virgil."

He swallowed, knowing the game was about to change. Not "Mystery Date"—"Stratego". He picked something imaginary off the front of the suit that was immaculate today and tugged at his cuffs, keeping his eyes on his hands as he self-groomed.

"Oh? How is the old coot?"

"Well. Rested. Happy. In love." She still hadn't looked at him directly, but she could see the little smile. _Smug bastard_.

"_Busy_."

He raised his head then, sensing she had turned to look at him and knowing the look of accusation and hurt and frustration he would see in her eyes. His mouth went dry, and he swallowed. He had seen nearly every emotion in nearly every combination in Teresa Lisbon's eyes over the years, but he'd never seen them like this. Nothing. There was nothing in her eyes for him.

"You've been busy, too, it seems. Busier than I thought. Busier than I would let myself think." She smiled wryly at her own words, but there was no humor there. He didn't know the name of this game.

He expected her to say more. There really should be more words, something to fill up this stifling silence. He felt himself starting to squirm. _Into the breach_.

"Lisbon—"

She held up one hand to silence him, looked at him levelly and spoke the same.

"Go. Give me thirty minutes then come back."

All of the air went out of him with the sure and certain knowledge that he had absolutely no choice but to comply. Knowing she wouldn't want to lay eyes on him during that half hour, he headed for the elevator and pushed "up". The car would take him as far as it could go and then the stairs. He would lie on his makeshift bed and come up with a plan. There would be a way to fix this. He knew the best he could hope for at the moment was a temporary patch. Beyond that it would take time to undo any damage, but he would get her there. Though near constant exposure over the years had given her some degree of immunity against his ploys, he knew that she absolutely could not resist the pull of her own compassion and sense of fair play.

Lisbon picked up her travel bag and headed for the locker rooms. Fifteen minutes later, she was back at her desk and ready for business in trousers, jacket, button-up oxford and loafers. She summoned her team, and they filed in silently, weighted by the oppressive atmosphere of her office. They left five minutes later, reluctant but determined to carry out what she had ordered them to do. She had given them a cursory explanation, and they understood it was necessary, but she knew better than anyone that necessity did not breed desire. They met two custodians at the stairs and started the walk up. The elevator pinged just as the stairwell door closed behind them.

Jane was unsure and discombobulated. He had tried to make good use of his time, but the frustration at having next to nothing to show for it was unfamiliar and uncomfortable to him. The smile was almost sure-fire, but he had better sense than to walk into her office grinning. For the first time, he had the very solid feeling that he didn't want to walk in there at all. She was on the phone—he guessed with LaRoche—and he gave her her privacy, moving nearer as he discerned the call was ending.

"Yes, sir, I'll keep you informed . . . Thank you, sir." It wasn't the first time he had heard resignation in her voice while speaking with her boss, but the tinge of weary relief was a first. He knocked.

"Come in, Jane. And take a seat, please."

_Ouch_. The politeness stung. He walked in and, out of habit, started for the couch.

"Not there. Here." She motioned to the office chair across from where she sat at her desk. Not a chat, then—a conversation, a meeting, boss to subordinate. Following her lead, he did as he was told, thinking that was the wisest strategy until he knew where this was going. He waited while she finished with the form in front of her. And that was _her_ strategy—making him wait, showing who was in control. He'd let her have that. After a minute, she put away the form and folded her hands on the desktop and sat, surveying him. She spoke in her let's-be-reasonable-and-do-the-right-thing voice.

"I've told you for years that you're a part of my team, tried to convince you of it over and over. But you've never accepted it, and I realize that's been my fault. I never really treated you like you were a member of the team, creating uncertainty and confusion. And it was something outside of your nature. It was unreasonable for me to expect something from you that wasn't in you to do."

So this is how it would be. She would accept the guilt, making him feel guilty in return for making her bear the burden.

"Lisbon, this really isn't—"

"Yes, Jane. It is. I'm not shouldering the blame. I'm merely outlining the pattern I allowed us to fall into."

"I know I crossed a line, Lis—"

"You did. You crossed a line and then another and then another. Our working relationship has been a series of lines, drawn and crossed."

He could make this better if only she'd let him get a word in edgewise.

"All of that stops now. I will, from this point on, treat you exactly like a member of my team, exactly the way I would treat anyone out there—" she motioned toward the bullpen which he just noticed was empty, "—beginning with a review of your status and recent behavior. I'll know how to proceed from there. Do you have any questions?"

_Hell, yes._

"Good. That's all." She reached into a box sitting on the floor by her desk and pulled out a file, opened it and began to work.

Dismissed.

Against his will and reflexes he rose and stood in place looking down at her. That was it? This gave him absolutely nothing to work with.

Except lunch. He knew she'd had lunch with Virgil and had a good idea what they'd discussed. The old man had ratted him out. And he knew once Virgil started he wouldn't have stopped until he told all. That means she had more than an idea of what he had requested and acquired over the past few months. But this wasn't just about that. A couple of phone calls and a few pieces of paper couldn't have prompted such a turnabout in less than two hours. Minelli had probably told her his theory on Todd Johnson's murder. That would account for the glint of anger he had caught in her eye, but this cold formality was something else. There was something she wasn't telling him. He'd seen these troubled waters enough times to know he wasn't going to get any more out of her right now. Granted, it had never been this bad. She had never seemed so closed off, but he knew it was best to let her have a little time and distance before he approached her again. He just needed to go upstairs, make a quick inventory and think and breathe. Yes. Think and breathe. But first, tea.

From the break room, movement in the hallway caught his eye. Cho walked by carrying a box about the size the computers came in. Rigsby followed, bearing the same. Two custodians walked into Lisbon's office to join two others that had been summoned there, and all four listened to her instructions. Grace was last, and his gaze into Lisbon's doorway caught on her, pulling her eyes to him. She was empty-handed but looking at him with that mix of frustration and guilt that only Grace could pull off. He would look into that later. He had his own work to do. He waited for the elevator, switched to the stairs and walked toward the open attic.

_Open?_

His pace quickened and he walked into the room and stared open-mouthed around the space. The place had been ransacked. He moved toward the makeshift table and let his teacup and saucer clatter to its surface as he pushed through the useless papers that were left behind there. The makeshift bed yielded nothing, and the space under the pillow was empty as was the shelf that held his used notebooks and diaries. A hole in the floor by the window caught his eye, and he knew without looking that the gift of a gun he'd gotten from Max Winter, another man widowed by brutal murder, was gone.

He stood seething, his hands clenching and unclenching. This was intolerable, unacceptable . . . _unfair_. She had no right. Those things were his. He had earned them, purchased and filled those diaries, sweat blood over them. When the rage rose to its zenith, there were two things he could do. Confront the circumstances or fall prey to them. He had vowed years ago to never again do the latter.

He spun on his heel and strode back to the stairs, leaving the cooling cup where it had landed. When the elevators opened, he headed straight for her. The custodians were coming out of the bullpen, and they brushed by him, heads down avoiding his eyes and obviously hoping to not have to exchange the customary friendly greetings. The beautiful new sofa, avec accoutrements, was in the bullpen set in an "L" with his older leather one.

_Fine_.

He turned toward her door and wrenched it open, venom ready on his tongue. But she was gone.

He paced back and forth in her office, one hand at his hip pushing his jacket back, the other running back and forth through his hair. He stopped, realizing the futility of his movements and looked down, lips pressed together, hand in hair stilled at the crown of his head. He had no idea where she had gone, but he knew the next place he could go.

"Here he comes." Rigsby's voice was low and ready. Grace's face stoned over in determination, and Cho's jaw twitched once.

"Hello, _team_. What's everybody been up to?" He hated them right now, and he wanted them to know it, but he would never resort to baser shows of emotion. Not in front of them. His eyes shifted back and forth across the room, looking for those boxes. They weren't readily visible, so he put his clenched fists into his jacket pockets and sauntered through the room casting his eyes about. _Nothing_.

"I've just been upstairs to my room. Funny thing. Looked like someone else has been there, too." Again, nothing. They weren't even looking at him. _Bitch and bastards_. They didn't even look sorry for what they'd done to him. He stopped and turned to look at Lisbon's empty office through the blinds. Apparently they were under orders.

"So . . . does anyone know where our fearless leader is? Our pilot? Our captain? Captain my captain? The queen of cops? The—"

"Stop it, Jane."

He had heard that edge in Cho's voice once before when he had nearly broken a man's arm during an investigation into the death of a former gang friend. As he turned to face him, the agent rose from his chair, fluid and graceful and silent. _Like a ninja_.

"What? I mean nothing by it." His smile was snakelike, and he knew his eyes glittered.

"Cut the melodramatic crap. You're making yourself look foolish."

"Well," he snickered with a roll of his eyes, "we both know I've never been bothered by _that_."

"Get out. Go somewhere. Cool down if you can. But don't come back here until you can be civil."

"_Civil?_" His snarl was too high-pitched. His voice had cracked on it. He took a step toward Cho but collided abruptly with Rigsby's chest, the big man having stood with that quick agility that always surprised people in a man so large.

"Go," came out low and menacing. _Ah, the biker dad. Must be in the genes_.

He turned slowly to where Grace now stood as well. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass just over her shoulder, wolf-like and predatory. He was almost leering at her. Grace was soft. Smart but soft. His eyes narrowed at her. She lifted her head, jutting her chin at him in defiance and straightened, eyes narrowing back. _The warrior queen's handmaiden_.

He looked around at them again, each in turn before he strode out of the room. Rigsby looked down at the half-finished form he still held in his hand, clenched so tightly he had unwittingly pushed his thumb through the paper. Grace sat down and turned back to her computer, her vision too blurred to make out the figures on the screen. Cho remained where he stood, hands on hips, staring at where Jane had been standing, more shaken than he would ever let the others see. They had seen that part of Jane they all knew he kept hidden, the part they didn't think about, hoping they would never see.

The elevator was too slow, so he slammed through the stairwell door and started the trek down. He was glad to go. He hated them all.


	4. In Hope of Survivors

4. IN HOPE OF SURVIVORS

Driving across the maze that was the combination of state and federal complex, Lisbon had opened the SUV windows, wisps of long chestnut hair blowing out on her driver's side. It was a beautiful day, warm sun and slightly cool breeze, most welcome after the wet winter had finally released them. Under other circumstances, she would have been tempted to blare the radio. But she hadn't put the windows down to let the fineness of the day in. She needed the fresh air for another reason.

_Those damn boxes._

She wished she could just set fire to the lot of them. She was sure if she got close enough to smell them, they would stink. Earl and Javier had carried them down for her while Tom and Craig had moved the couch. She smiled half-heartedly to herself, remembering their hesitant but determined smiles when they had turned away from the car to head back into the building. _We won't say a word_.

LaRoche had been surprised to say the least when she had called him. But given the crucial timing of the matter, his answer had been to the point with little consideration. It helped that he had always been somewhat leery of Jane's agenda and rationality. She hadn't mentioned Madeleine's letter. The irony of her secrecy didn't escape her.

"And you think Minelli told you everything?"

"Yes, sir. I don't think there was that much to tell." It was the weight of the words, not their number. "It's best if I get it out of the building. Otherwise, he won't stop until he finds it."

"And you trust her?"

"With my life." _And more_.

It was bitter for her to have to face defeat, but LaRoche needed to hear it.

"I thought I had the matter in hand, and to a point I did. I just didn't realize there was so much . . . It just needs to be handled, and I think this is the best way. It can't go on like this." _I can't go on like this_.

Having heard what was spoken and what was not, LaRoche sighed heavily into the phone.

"I think you're right. Make it so. And, Agent Lisbon . . . for what it's worth, I think you've gone the distance."

"Yes, sir, I'll keep you informed . . . Thank you, sir."

Yes, she had gone the distance. And then some. She just hoped she wasn't at the end of the line. The federal building loomed up in front of her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Why was that? Had she expected Jane to come racing after her as if he knew where she would go? She wondered for not the first time that day if she hadn't lost her own grasp on reality just a little. She hoped he could cool down before she had to see him again. She had seen what he was like when his temper was up and heard the murderous note in his voice when he spoke of killing Red John. How far would his anger push him after what she'd done—what she'd been forced to do? She only knew she wouldn't be so sure of his sanity right now and wondered how much ill will the darkness of his heart could harbor against anyone who simply got in his way, even her. _Madness maddened. _Where had she read that?

She phoned ahead, engaged in a good-natured give and take then snapped her phone shut. As promised, two FBI agents waited outside the front doors to help her carry up the small but heavy cargo. They looked like they worked for the Matrix. Feebs always looked alike to her.

Except for one.

Eleanor Bradley wasn't really an agent, though she had done more than her share of sifting secrets and wrangling confessions. Pretty handy with a weapon, too, for a female suit. Eleanor was a psychiatrist. Lisbon had met her years earlier when they both worked for the SFPD. The older woman had helped Teresa through a couple of rough patches having to do with both past and present events at the time. _If Jane had known about that,"_ she mused to herself. The beloved shrink had left the department two years after Teresa joined, finally acquiescing to pleas from the FBI to condescend to working with them. Eleanor had always despised the Feds, but she couldn't pass up the opportunity to widen her scope. Teresa knew she owed her current position in part to Eleanor's recommendation. If the woman could help her now, she would owe a lot more.

"Teresa. Good to see you. Yes, just put those over there, boys." As she motioned to the floor near the couch, Eleanor turned and winked at her behind the "boys'" backs. The "boys", grown men about Rigsby's age, didn't seem to mind, both of them grinning at her over their shoulders as they left. The shrink then motioned Teresa to the couch and they took a seat facing each other, both leaning back into the cushions, completely at ease. She felt safe on this couch, and she could almost taste the relief of being in the older woman's presence.

"It's been a while. You look haggard, dear."

"Don't hold back, Ella."

"I never do. That's one of the reasons we get along so well."

"And one of the reasons I hated you at first."

"I get that a lot."

"But you improve upon acquaintance."

"Sometimes I get that, too."

It was easy talking to Eleanor here among her plants and books and collection of artifacts.

"Is that a shrunken head?"

Eleanor turned and looked at it over her shoulder. "It was a gift."

Teresa raised an eyebrow at her, and Eleanor shrugged.

"You have some weird friends."

"They're the best kind . . . Is that enough small talk?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Let's get to it."

It had not escaped Teresa's attention that while they made inane conversation, Eleanor's left hand had lowered to the box at her feet, her index finger trailing back and forth over a brown leather book that rested on top. _Jane's journal_. He wrote all of his thoughts out in paperbound diaries, but the distilled theories, the pieced-together bits of the puzzle, everything he deemed truly significant went into that journal. At Teresa's words, Eleanor had hefted the box up and placed it on the couch between them. She opened the journal, and Teresa stifled the urge to reach for it and grab it from her prying fingers. Ella noticed the slight twitch, and smiled reassuringly at her.

"Don't worry. I won't hurt him anymore."

Teresa watched her, stilled by what she had said. That was exactly what she had unknowingly dreaded in this. _He's already been so wounded—please don't let him be hurt anymore._ Had she prayed that, convinced she was doing him perhaps the second greatest injury of his life? When and if the anger subsided, the sense of betrayal would overwhelm him. That was how he would play it at any rate. She knew only friends could betray. She really wasn't sure now just _what_ they were to each other.

Ella reached around the box and squeezed her cold hand while closing the journal softly in her other.

"We'll just save this for later, shall we?" She turned and placed the book gingerly on an end table behind her then delved back into the box.

"Well, well, well. What have we here? Looks like a 'Predilection Systems Analysis of Crime Patterning blah-blah-blah for Red John'. My, my, your Patrick Jane must have had quite an effect on Dr. Montague to tempt her to commit such a breach in _emotion_. I wonder what data sets she ran."

"You know her?"

"Yes, I've worked with her a few times. Lovely girl. Very well behaved. Smart as a whip. Does good work. Very useful stuff," all said as she perused the numbers. She closed the report with a sharp intake of breath and looked at Teresa.

"Dr. Montague. She spent quite a bit of time with your Patrick Jane?"

"He took her around with him and showed her how he does things."

"Hm. That would explain the new broach."

"And don't call him that. He's not _my_ Patrick Jane. He's not my _anything_."

Eleanor looked at her kindly.

"And don't look at me with your 'don't-lie-to-me-you-poor-little-lamb' eyes."

"Sweetie, anyone who has the good fortune to capture someone else's attention in this life belongs to them, even if only in part and for a little while. If not yours, then whose? Don't lose sight of what's most important here."

"What's most important is stopping Red John."

"And yet, you've brought me not a single Red John file," she pointed out in a high-pitched voice of mock wonder. She ignored the use of "stopping" rather than "catching". Teresa Lisbon had changed in more ways than one over the last few years.

"I've brought you what Jane has on Red John, stuff I didn't know he had, some stuff I didn't even know existed. Now do what you do and pick it apart and put it back together."

"It may not be possible to do that with his evidence without doing it to the man as well."

"Then so be it."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

Eleanor Bradley inhaled deeply. She could not deny the tiny thrill she had gotten when Teresa first called at the prospect of getting her hands on Patrick Jane, psychiatrically speaking. What a puzzle. She was so tired of fighting paper crimes. They seemed to be all that came across her desk anymore. Perhaps she could even help him. And if she could help the girl in front of her come to terms with a few things as well, all the better. Her only regret in leaving the San Francisco Police Department all those years ago had been the unfinished business of Teresa Lisbon.

"All you have to do is get him here."

"Any suggestions?"

Eleanor motioned her hands over the boxes surrounding her as if she were weaving a spell.

"Just let him know where he can find this . . . but nothing too obvious!" She cautioned after a thought. "You'll have to be sneaky."

"I learned from the best." Teresa replied with a smirk.

"I won't ask to whom you're referring."

The older woman paused then asked, all serious now, "Teresa, . . . you're sure?"

"Sure of what? That this is the right thing? That this might make a difference? Eleanor, the only thing I'm sure of is that I have no other choice." _Or hope_.

She knew Eleanor understood and was grateful when her friend merely gave her hand another squeeze before she pulled her up from her seat on the couch and showed her the door.


	5. All Hands

**Thanks to all who have alert-ed and favorite-d this story. And much gratitude to all of you who have taken the time to review (including xanderseye, to whom I cannot reply directly-especially for the rubbing your hands in glee part).**

5. ALL HANDS

Lisbon flipped her phone shut. She knew Jane wouldn't let things lie, but he would need information, and there was only one person he might go to now. One last call was all it had taken to put things in place.

She breathed easier now that the boxes were somewhere safe and somewhere _else_. In spite of Cho's text of "all clear", she knew she couldn't go back to work. She would fully expect Jane to be waiting to waylay her in the parking lot. She could have arranged to have him suspended, but she hadn't wanted to take it that far, fearful that it might induce him to cut ties altogether. It suddenly occurred to her that she should go to a hotel for the night. She had every reason to believe—no, she _knew_—that he would be waiting for her at her home.

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"Who was on the phone?"

Virgil Minelli sat looking out the window, still contemplating the call he'd just finished. He realized May had asked him a question and shook himself to answer, turning to look at the face that had become so dear to him in four short months.

"It was Teresa."

"Teresa Lisbon? Were you expecting to hear from her?"

"I was expecting to hear from someone. Just wasn't sure who would be first. You're off work early."

"My last two appointments of the day were cancelled, and I thought I'd spend some extra time with my boyfriend. You don't mind, do you?"

She sat on the arm of the club chair in which she'd found him hunched forward and draped on arm around his tense shoulders then dropped a kiss on top of his head. He relaxed under her touch and leaned against her.

"Doll, for you I've got all the time in the world."

"So, what's up with Teresa?"

"It's not Teresa specifically . . ."

"Patrick Jane then."

He leaned back and looked up at her, his eyebrow arched.

"I know what's been going on, Virgil, and if Teresa Lisbon calls with a problem and it's not her problem, the next logical guess is Patrick Jane. Anybody can see how closely bound to one another those two are."

"Ironically, everybody but them."

"That's often how it is when people are afraid."

"Well, then these are two of the most fearful people I've ever met."

"Teresa is a beautiful woman, obviously damaged but strong, would love nothing more than to be able to trust one person implicitly but has been let down too many times and doesn't want to be hurt anymore. Patrick is equally damaged, not unbalanced but definitely on edge, bent on a dangerous path, handsome and charming—"

"You know, I've never asked you why you were at lunch with him that day."

He was smiling at her, but she could see the hint of uncertainty in his eyes, and she found it utterly beguiling. But he didn't need to know that. She shrugged and stood, walking toward the window she'd found him staring at.

"He called to invite me, and I said yes." She turned suddenly to face him and leaned back against the sill, her hands behind her, her expression a mix of mischief and flirtation. "And I've never been so glad to have accepted a lunch invitation in my life."

She laughed at his sudden pleased smile, and walked back to him to take his face in her hands and kiss him tenderly on the lips. She stroked his cheek once before heading into the kitchen.

"I'm making some coffee. Want some?"

"Yeah. I'll be right there."

"Oh, and Virgil?" She had turned back at the doorway to look at him. "I don't care what Patrick Jane said. Lose the beard?"

He chuckled and nodded at her, and she flashed a smile before walking into the kitchen. Reaching up to his cheek, he scratched at the snow white growth. It would be a relief to get rid of it. It itched. His phone vibrated in his hand and he checked the caller ID. Punching the ignore button, he headed for the bathroom. It was the first of what he knew would be several calls throughout the evening. He couldn't ignore them for long, though. The woman in his kitchen helping herself to his coffee wouldn't let him.

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Jane knew Virgil was purposely ignoring his calls. He guessed he couldn't blame him. Virgil would know what was up and probably wouldn't want to face him after what had to have been a hellish lunch with _her_.

He had waited outside the CBI for her to return, but by three o'clock he knew she had never meant to come back for the day. He hadn't waited long at her apartment. If she knew not to come back to work, she would undoubtedly go to a hotel to avoid seeing him at her home. He could go back to the bureau the next day to talk to her. He knew how easy it was to play at being civil.

But as the evening wore on, he grew more restless. He tried three more times to reach Virgil as he drove from her apartment to dinner then around town trying to decide where he needed to go next. He thought about but decided against just going to the man's house. Virgil might be in a delicate place right now between his concern for May and his recent run-in. Best not to push too hard.

He had to find a place to spend the night. The CBI was out, but he had developed acquaintances with the night clerks at nearly every seedy motel and hotel of any number of stars in Sacramento, as well as a couple of the cleaner shelters. He was never out of options in that regard. Once he decided on a place, he drove across town and pulled into the parking lot before he gave Minelli's number one more try.

"Hello, Jane." Virgil's voice sounded tired and resigned.

"Virgil. I assume you know why I'm calling."

"Look, Jane, I'm sorry I went to Teresa, but when you wanted May to—"

"I get it Virgil, I really do. You didn't want May exposed to anything having to do with Red John, and you didn't want to be caught in the middle if the CBI found out about my activities."

"Both of those. On the nose."

"Like I said, I get it. See the thing is, she went a bit overboard. Well, a lot overboard, actually. She had her goons—"

"Her _goons_?"

"The team. The people who do her bidding. She had them go through my room at the CBI—"

"What do you mean, 'your room at the CBI'?"

"I stay in the attic sometimes, keep things stored up there."

Minelli shook his head at the information. Jane had been a lot closer to the deep end than he'd realized. He wouldn't broach that subject right now or the fact that Jane seemed incapable of referring to Teresa by name.

"I had a lot of evidence—not really evidence, more like research." Minelli could almost hear him shifting over the phone. "Anyway, she took it away from me. She left today with the boxes—"

"_Boxes?_ How much stuff did you have anyway?"

"Just two small boxes. She took them somewhere. I don't know where. I only know that they belong to me, and I need to get them back. Do you know of any place, any person she'd trust with them? Maybe a former colleague?"

_After all this time you would think I wouldn't be surprised by the man's gall._ Virgil took time to consider.

"Have you asked LaRoche?"

"She wouldn't take them there. She'd know he wouldn't know what to do with them and wouldn't want them anyway. And if I thought LaRoche would tell me anything I'd be talking to him right now."

Virgil let a little more time slide by.

"Well then, you can bet they're not at the CBI anymore."

"I'd already figured that much."

"And she wouldn't just let them sit around. Want to find out what you were about. Somebody's got them, going through them."

He thought he could hear Jane's teeth grinding through the phone. He almost felt badly about what he was doing. He had known Jane's frustration at not being able to reach him all evening would have drawn him as tight as a guitar string. Just a little farther now.

"They're undoubtedly at another agency, nothing local. Probably the FBI."

"The federal building's a big place, Virgil."

"Jane—"

"You owe me, Virgil."

Minelli's anger sparked, and the sarcastic snark of the former CBI director came back in full force.

"What? _May?_ Tell me, Jane, was she some kind of bribe? I guess I shouldn't've been naïve enough to believe you introduced me out of any good will, let alone friendship. It didn't occur to me she was just something you offered up to cover any future extortion attempts."

"I shouldn't have said that, Virgil. I apologize—I'd never use May that way."

Well, he _sounded_ sincere. Still, it didn't hurt to set him back on his heels a little. He bit back the retort that he knew Jane would use anyone for anything if it got him what he wanted. He waited, letting Jane circle a bit. With a skill honed over years of dealing with criminals and politicians and bureaucrats, he waited until he heard another shift over the phone.

"There is this one woman. Older, about my age. Teresa knew her years ago. A shrink for SFPD working for the Feebs now."

He didn't want to seem too eager.

"Do you have a _name_, Virgil?"

He paused again for effect then gave in with a sigh.

"Bradley. Eleanor Bradley. She's tough. Done a lot of good work for the Feebs. Would've made a good cop."

Jane smirked at Minelli's high praise. He knew the type—a would-be cop who prided herself on being able to outsmart a few criminals, with the arrogance of a state shrink. He knew exactly how to play this game.

"Thanks, Virgil. I guess _I_ owe _you_ one now."

"No, Jane. You don't owe me a thing. Actually, I'd rather not hear from you again. Ever."

"Really, Virgil, there's no need to be unpleasant."

He was too old for this. He just wanted the call to be over, and it was really getting on his nerves that Jane kept saying his name. He knew that was his intention.

"It's past that, _Patrick_. I hope this all comes to a quick end for you."

That took Jane back a bit, and he frowned. Was Minelli washing his hands of him? The feeling that maybe he had gone too far was always unpleasant if short lived. But there wasn't a "too far" in this. Whatever got him what he wanted, what he needed was just far enough. Before he could say anything to smooth it over, Minelli spoke again.

"Oh, and _Patrick_?"

"Yes, Virgil?"

"Stay away from May."

Minelli hung up and frowned down at the phone in his hand, anger still coursing through him.

"I think you enjoyed that a little too much."

He hadn't heard her come into the living room. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. They'd had an enjoyable evening over a quiet dinner. As expected, she hadn't let him ignore Jane's calls for too long.

"I wouldn't go straight to 'enjoy'." He smirked, still looking down at the phone in his hand.

"You were good at it, weren't you? At being a cop? An agent?"

He chuckled in good humor now. "Yes. Yes, I was."

"Did you always catch the bad guy?"

He looked up at that. "Not always. But enough to make it worth my while."

"You miss it?"

His eyes slid sideways as he considered then he nodded slowly. "Sometimes."

"Were you always so shifty?" She was smiling, her eyes dancing at him.

"Sometimes." He gave her an answering smile.

She pushed herself off the door frame and walked to stand in front of him. She brushed her knuckles against his smooth cheek then held out her hand to him. He took it, and when she tugged he stood and followed her down the hallway. He would follow this woman anywhere.


	6. Into the Drink

6. INTO THE DRINK

The dial tone seemed harsher and louder in his ear than usual as Jane thoughtfully snapped his phone shut. The threat had been barely veiled, and he knew better than to cross Virgil Minelli on this point. He had more than an inkling of how far his old boss would go to protect May. The important thing was he'd gotten what he was after, and now he needed to get some rest. He wanted to be at the Federal building early to meet Dr. Eleanor Bradley. If he was waiting for the old bird when she got in, even better.

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The hotel was nice, a little pricier than she normally would have chosen, but Lisbon had had enough today and wanted at least the semblance of ease. The room was made for pampering with scented lotions and foaming soaps in the bath, a fully stocked mini-bar, down pillows and comforter and thick, over-sized towels. After her long bath and savored scotch, Lisbon may have felt pampered but she took little comfort in it. Laying across the bed on her stomach, wearing one of the chunky guest robes she'd found in the closet, her damp hair falling down her back, she slid Madeleine's letter out of her purse.

She read again of how Jane had drawn their former boss to his aerie and held her at gunpoint demanding to know if she was Red John's mole in the CBI.

_He left me in no doubt that he was willing to use that gun if he had to._

Lisbon was glad for Madeleine's ability to separate emotionality from fact. She had always been a calculating woman, and while Lisbon had felt the sting of that at times, she had also come to understand Hightower's need for it, even appreciate it. But never more than now. The letter was succinct and precise and—Lisbon was sure—omitted nothing, from Jane's theory on Todd Johnson and the Red John mole (corroborating Virgil Minelli's information) to why and how he had helped Madeleine escape.

_It all made perfect sense, Teresa, but it was still hard to deal with. Everything was happening so fast—I had no choice but to go along with the plan. I knew I was losing a lot, but I still had so much to protect._

Reading the brief outline of Jane's evidence (as much as he had given Madeleine), Lisbon knew it was all true. Turning everything, _almost_ everything over to Eleanor wasn't enough. In the morning she would call and ask the psychiatrist to make copies of the diaries and the journal. She needed to be able to read everything for herself. Madeleine wanted to assure her she had tried to insist Jane tell her what was going on, but he had refused—_to protect you as well as his pursuit._

She considered destroying the letter, but was loathe to do so, thinking she might need it later—as evidence or comfort, she didn't know. There was one paragraph that seemed out of place and didn't really sound like Madeleine.

_It may take a while for me to get used to this exile. I find myself desperately seeking a way back to Sacramento, but any observer will be on the lookout._

It was not so far-fetched, she believed, that her former supervisor could be trying to tell her something more than was written plainly on the page. She needed to reason it out, wishing not for the first time there was someone she could turn to for help without fear for their careers or even life or freedom. For now, she knew she would have to find a place to hide the letter. She reread the final paragraph, Madeleine's only nod to emotion or sentiment.

_I wronged you, Teresa. I mishandled and misinterpreted and underestimated you until it was almost too late. I won't apologize for my motives, but from the beginning I saw your relationship with Jane as a problem, a detriment to the bureau, the job, and—I'm sorry to admit—my career. I tried to use you against one another, play you against one another, and when that didn't work, I tried to drive a wedge between you, separate you. I couldn't see what you had come to be together—still don't quite understand it. I should have let you be, but I wanted things smooth, wanted things to look good. Truth is, I should have just put up with the funky vibe you two have and taken the heat. You were worth it. I'm sorry it took me so long to see that._

_For what it's worth, I think part of Jane's reason for keeping his secrets was to protect you as well as his pursuit. I know that's not much of a comfort, but it's something to consider._

_I thought you should know._

Her eyes stung with tears over her boss and friend's words of understanding and apology. Suddenly feeling the events and emotions of the day catching up with her, Lisbon realized she was bone weary. After locking herself in for the night and turning out the light, she stepped out of the robe and let it pool around her feet. Not bothering to fish a jersey out of her bag, she crawled naked between the luxurious bed linens. She caught herself wondering where Jane was and if he was all right, angry with herself over her continued vulnerability and naiveté.

_I couldn't see what you had come to be together._

She wouldn't allow herself to be tormented by looking at that too closely now. Whatever they had come to be, she was fairly certain they weren't that anymore. Not wanting to contemplate if they would ever be anything to one another again, she willed her mind to quiet and drifted into an uneasy sleep, Madeleine's words swimming in her head.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

An interested observer might have thought he was punishing himself, settling into the disreputable motel for the evening. It was in a terrible part of town, near the docks—the sort of place that saw more action during the day than the night. That was fine with him. He wanted quiet, the feeling that he was alone while the world slept around him. He hadn't bothered to throw his overnight bag into his car when he'd left the bureau. Pissed as he was, he'd not considered that he wouldn't be going back that day. That didn't bother him either. It wasn't like anyone expected him to follow a normal hygiene routine. He had showered that morning waiting for . . . well, with nothing else to do and shaved two days before. Unkempt and rumpled often made for a good front. He dropped the room key on the dresser and threw his jacket on the bed. Rolling up his shirt sleeves and unbuttoning his vest, he sat at the desk and set himself to the task of recreating what he could of his notes in the new journal he'd bought that evening after he'd eaten dinner. This one was smaller so he could carry it, he figured under his shirt, where it tucked into the back of his trousers. He'd never leave anything lying around again.

He'd been writing for hours when his head suddenly jerked. His mind had gone into a haze then slipped into a dose as he still sat slouched forward, his head resting against his palm, elbow braced on the desk. Apparently, his hand hadn't stopped when his mind had. He looked down at the sloppily printed six letters and frowned. His lips pressed together and arced into an angry pout as he scribbled back and forth through her name with such ferocity that he nearly tore through the page then slammed the journal shut and pushed it away from him, glaring at it as if it had betrayed him.

Pushing up from the desk, he snapped off the light and lay down on the bed, staring up at the black.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Getting through security at the federal building was easy, armed as he was with only his CBI card. He checked the information board and found her name and office location readily enough. He knew the listing of "Bradley, Eleanor, MD" was misleading. He had looked her up. Eleanor Bradley was sixty-two years old, had received her medical degree from Harvard University College of Medicine, earned a second degree in Forensic Psychiatry while on staff as an associate clinician at Johns Hopkins University then hired on with the SFPD, consulting from time to time with various other law enforcement agencies. Just over ten years ago, she had gone to work for the FBI, and she had published several papers on the workings of the criminal mind. She was obviously a well-educated and intelligent woman. Still, she had opted to work in the world of law enforcement, solving the puzzles of why and how people went bad and did bad things. He didn't think she would be much of a puzzle herself.

He clipped his CBI ID to his jacket pocket and wended his way through the halls of the building as if he belonged there. Looking like you fit in was half the battle in getting around places that might otherwise be off limits. He passed through key card-operated doors that were held open for others, walked down a couple of forbidden halls and, in fairly short order, ended up in front of Dr. Eleanor Bradley's office door. Not wanting to start off on the wrong foot, he knocked and received a rather absentminded sounding "Enter" for the effort.

She was standing in front of a huge old bookcase—one of a matched set of several that lined the large room—and looking down at a very old book that seemed too large for her to hold. Dark auburn hair, professionally colored to the original tint he guessed—cascaded over her shoulders in a crimped and wild but controlled mess. The soft knit pink leopard print jacket hugged her arms tight and fell in draped folds from her shoulder nearly to her knees, covering a white scoop-necked tank that gave way to dark skinny jeans. The wedge sandals added two or three inches to her short stature, and the thick cluster of hair-thin silver bracelets jangled as she turned a page. She was perfectly still—not a twinge, tick or twitch; a study in complete vertical repose. She looked up toward the door through which he had walked and in front of which he still stood, the question of her guest's identity hovering in her gaze, and he felt his expression smooth over to hide his surprise that she was not what he had expected. She had the darkest brown eyes he had ever seen, made unnaturally large by the high-powered reading glasses she wore. Upon seeing him, the cupid's-bow lips widened into a pleased smile. She slid off the spectacles, and the merry gleam in her eyes belied her sixty-plus years, as did nearly everything about her appearance. The book in her hand closed with a happy snap.

"Ah! You must be Patrick Jane!"

All of the anger over what had brought him here and the thrill of making it to her office unhindered shrank at high speed down to one tightly focused, blindingly bright point of realization.

He had been had.

"Please, Mr. Jane. Have a seat." She waved toward the couch. "Can I get you anything? Perhaps a cup of tea?"

"Uh, don't think so. I'll just take my stuff and go."

"Your stuff?"

"The boxes that—" He swallowed the sudden anger and began again. "I believe some boxes containing things that belong to me were brought to you. I'd like them back."

She moved to the couch herself, her brow furrowed in thought. She didn't even try to be convincing.

"Boxes . . . brought here . . . to me. And what makes you think I have these boxes? And _who_ exactly would've brought them to me?"

She had noticed his slip. He would have to be more careful. He pushed his fists into his jacket pockets.

"Virgil Minelli suggested I come to see you."

"Ah, Virgil. What a dear. How is the old sweetheart?" Her eyes hadn't left his since he entered her office, and he was beginning to wonder who would give first.

"The old sweetheart is fine, in spite of his recent experiences. Now, my things, if you don't mind, Dr. Bradley."

"Oh, Eleanor, please. And I'll call you Patrick."

She was nearly as presumptuous as he was. He smiled mirthlessly and looked down at the floor, rocking forward on his feet.

"Oh, I don't think we'll be getting to know one another that well."

"One can never tell."

At that precise moment, her electric kettle signaled readiness, and she rose with a smile and an "Ah, tea" and moved to a credenza between two large windows on the other side of the room. She opened one of the bottom doors and pulled out two teacups and two saucers and situated them on a tray. Another door opened to reveal a built-in mini-fridge from which she took a small carton of milk. She poured a bit of milk into one of the cups before she added teabags and water. She let the tea steep before discarding both teabags, mixed some sugar into her cup and added a small jar of clover honey to the tray before bringing it back to the couch and setting it on the coffee table. There was no doubting it now.

"Look, . . . Eleanor. I know she's been here."

The questioning gaze met his in mock innocence.

"You've made my tea to order, and I recognize the label on the clover honey. It's from a farm stand where we buy apples. Besides, the jar is new, and you take demerara. Now—"

"Where _we_ buy apples? I think it would help matters if we just got Teresa Lisbon out in the open."

"I don't want to talk about her."

"And remarkably, even though you can't bring yourself to say her name—probably don't even allow yourself to think it—you've been talking about her since you walked in the door. You know, you're going to eventually run out of creative ways of doing that."

He looked at her a moment as she sat calmly drinking her tea. It was Darjeeling. The aroma was tantalizing. She was completely relaxed, one leg curled beneath her and the other hanging off the side of the couch. He realized she was waiting for him to come to her.

His fists still firmly planted in his pockets, he walked the room. Diplomas, citations, certificates and commendations congregated on one section of wall. Near her desk were two companion raw sketches, what looked to be very good copies of da Vinci studies in ink. The books covered a wide range of subjects and titles—everything from several editions of Grey's Anatomy to Agatha Christie, Blackstone's Law Commentary to P.D. Wodehouse. The Psychiatrist's Desk Reference was conspicuously absent.

"Are you nearly done with your examination? I'm beginning to feel a bit awkward."

She brought her tea cup back to her lips and paused, then turned to look at him where he stood behind her and asked askance, "You're not going to _sniff_ me, are you?"

He was caught off guard by the nonsense and teasing of the question and wondered just how much she . . . _Lisbon_ had told her.

"Oh, Teresa didn't have to tell me anything about that. Your methods are well known among law enforcement organizations at all levels. It _is_ interesting that you would jump to that conclusion, however."

She turned back to her original position, and he stood looking at the back of her head for a moment. She wasn't cooperating. He just wanted to get his things and go.

"Your tea's getting cold, Patrick."

It was Darjeeling, after all. He sighed and moved to the couch to sit down.

"There, that's better. Now, suppose you tell me about this 'stuff'."

"_Lisbon_ brought some of my things here yesterday, and I want them back."

"Well, Teresa did bring some boxes by, but I believe only some of the things are actually yours. Most of the papers were illegally copied from CBI case files. I can't in good conscience return those to you since they're not rightfully yours . . . Don't break my cup."

He relaxed his hold on the delicate porcelain.

"What about the predilection report? Dr. Montague gave that to me."

"Generated from a program paid for by the state for use by the state. If she had given it to Agent Lisbon, it would have been all right, but she committed a breach in protocol and regulations by giving it to you. She could get into a lot of trouble for that, so I'm afraid that's a non-negotiable as well."

He understood that she had no problem with what Montague had done, only with the possibility of it being a problem for the young woman. She smiled at him, acknowledging his comprehension.

She turned and tilted her head slightly, musing aloud, "I can't imagine that it's any good to you anyway. Evidence in Red John cases is so very slim, there's almost never any connection between victims, and his timing seems to be entirely indiscriminate. The numbers would tell you more about what he's already done, not what he intends to do."

Her gaze became more focused when she turned back to him.

"No. There are only the diaries and, of course, the journal that would legally and actually qualify as belonging to you. I've made copies of the diaries, so you can have those, but I'm afraid I can't give the journal back to you just yet."

"Will I get it back when you're done pawing through it?" He couldn't keep the sneer out of his voice.

"Pawing?" She smirked at him. "I don't think _pawing_ is accurate—I assure you I'm washing my hands."

"What about all the others?"

"What others?" She was genuinely confused.

"The other analysts or whatever."

She leaned to the side and put her cup on the coffee table.

"Patrick, I can assure you, I'm the only one looking at your journal, and the diary copies will only be used as back-up. It's not being passed around—Teresa would never allow it. She was barely able to let _me_ look at it."

Now it was his turn to look confused.

"I don't think you realize what it cost her to do what she did."

"What it cost _her_?" he spat out.

He had come with the intention of charming her into letting him have his way, and she had done nothing but mock and laugh at him since he came through the door. Now she looked at him with thinly veiled contempt. Slurring Lisbon in any way would obviously not put him in her good graces.

"The fact is, I can't give the journal back until you can act in a more responsible manner."

She was really grating on his nerves, and he didn't have many left.

"And what exactly, Eleanor, qualifies as acting 'in a more responsible manner'?"

"You mean you don't know?" She was mocking him again. Suddenly, her eyes seemed to literally twinkle, and she laughed at him.

"I'm so sorry. But you take yourself very seriously, don't you? I'm afraid it makes you rather a target. I really should let people get to know me before I subject them to my humor."

She leaned forward and laid a hand on one of his, speaking in a confidential manner.

"Let me be honest with you. I've looked at the journal—not in depth mind you—and I don't find anything in it that would advance the investigation. Now don't get all stiff on me. I'm not saying it's the ramblings of a madman or anything—quite the contrary."

She was willing for now to overlook the fact that the first dozen or so diaries had seemed to be just that. Mostly things he wanted to say to Red John written over and over again. _I know you did it, I know you did it, I know you did it, confess, confess, confess._ Ignoring the chilled foreboding, she had read on, relieved to see his thinking seem to clear, as if those first several books were a log of a mind walking out of the darkness.

"You've taken everything you know about Red John and turned it inside out and rung it dry. Believe me, I understand your frustration. Goodness knows, I had hoped for more. No one on earth knows more about those cases than you, but it's like I said before—there just isn't much to work with. That's not to say I don't understand the significance of that journal. I do."

He relaxed visibly, and she pulled away from him, resuming her previous position.

"Then I can have it back?"

"No."

"But you said—"

"I meant I realize its significance to _you_."

"You're holding onto it? To make me behave?"

"I prefer to think of it as holding it in trust . . . to make you behave."

A knock sounded at the door. She rose from the couch and collected the tea things, and he watched her, still holding his half-full cup of cooled Darjeeling.

"Ah! That must be my nine o'clock. I'm sorry, but we'll have to talk later. Your diaries are in that box by the door."

"But—"

She turned to face him, slightly exasperated, as if she thought she had made herself clear.

"Look, Patrick. Go back to work. Make nice. Come back to see me in a few days, and we'll see what happens. Now, I don't mean to throw you out but . . ."

She held out her hand, and he realized she wanted her cup and saucer back. He handed it over and rose to leave, trumped, but only for now. She walked him to the door, and when she opened it, there were two FBI agents standing there.

"Yes, Charles, come in and have a seat." The younger agent entered the room and did as he was told. Eleanor motioned to the other, much larger man who waited in the hall.

"This is Agent Wiggins. He'll help you find your way to the front door. Sometimes it's easier to get in to something than it is to get out of it."

He looked at her in resigned frustration and stepped into the hall to follow Agent Wiggins.

"Ma'am? I just need you to sign these." The young agent on the couch held a slim file out to her. She smiled brightly and took the file then moved to her desk for a pen. Once the few forms were signed, she ushered the newbie out the door. She would need to clear her calendar. The appointments for tomorrow were fine, but she would need to open up her mornings for the next week. Patrick Jane was not the sort of man who called ahead.

"_Well,_" she mused to herself. _"Not everything I hoped it would be, but still . . . I did get him to drink the tea."_


	7. Man Overboard

7. MAN OVERBOARD

"_Don't come back here until you can be civil."_

"_Go back to work. Make nice."_

He repeated the words over and over to himself, mocking their sentiment even as the words mocked him. He had played at being civil, made nice plenty of times. It was easy. Of course, he'd never been able to sustain his good behavior. He had a feeling Eleanor expected a little more than cursory good manners.

It stuck in his craw that he wouldn't get everything back. It had taken him months and sometimes years of profiling the clerks, janitors and uniformed officers to find the best candidates for what he wanted, cultivating relationships with them and forging new ones when they left and were replaced, appealing to their sympathies, convincing them they could trust him. Now all of that was lost. Still, Eleanor was right about one thing. No one knew the cases better. He had memorized everything he could get his hands on. If he had to, he could reconstruct the files from memory. He realized she hadn't mentioned the gun. He'd broach that subject when he went back. It was also a major irritation that Eleanor had made his return a necessity.

He rolled into the CBI parking lot at 9:30. He doubted that anyone had expected him to arrive on time, if at all. When he walked through the front doors, the place was eerily quiet. He could hear someone speaking from one of the large conference rooms. A door must have opened because for just a few seconds he recognized the voice as that of CBI Director Gale Bertram.

"Big meeting?" He asked the security guard.

"Yeah. Everybody's in the main conference hall. Your people, too."

The guard waved him through, and he moved to the hall, curious as to what was happening. He quietly opened one of the large metal doors and caught it behind him, closing it silently. His eyes swept the room, and he saw the team standing just in front of the other set of doors several yards away. He resisted the urge, born out of habit, to take his place with them. Suddenly, something Bertram was saying caught his attention.

" . . . and so I am very happy to announce the reforming of the Serial Crimes Unit of the California Bureau of Investigation. The new Serial C.U. will be headed by Agent Ron Taggert, formerly of the LAPD. Agent Taggert has twenty-five years of experience . . ."

He lost interest somewhat, only lending half of his attention to the speech when he noticed several eyes doing what he had done earlier and seeking out the members of the Serious Crimes Unit. He realized the possible ramifications of this announcement and this newly reformed team for Lisbon and the others. His own eyes drifted back to her, and he was not surprised to see her features perfectly schooled, clear gaze firmly fixed on the director where he stood at the podium. Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt were following her lead, as always. If any of this was bothering her, she wasn't letting the room know it.

Bertram introduced the members of the Serial C.U. and finished his speech. The convocation was dismissed, and the SCU beat it out the doors and back to the confines of their office and bullpen before anyone in the room could approach them for comment. Jane stood for a few minutes and watched with amusement as a swell of agents approached Taggert to offer welcome and congratulations then decided to head upstairs himself.

He cleared the elevator and caught a glimpse of Van Pelt's red hair. _The busy bees are already droning away at their posts_. As he headed toward Lisbon's office, Cho exited the bullpen, headed in the same direction, his attention bent on the file he was reading. Just before he entered her door, the agent looked up.

"Jane." The surprise was barely noticeable on his face, but not in his tone. It was obvious Cho hadn't expected him to be back so soon.

"Cho."

They stood and eyed one another for a moment. It was odd to be so uncomfortable-seven years had forged a relationship and a meeting of minds. _This man was my friend_. Both wondered if it was naïve to hope the damage could be repaired.

"She's in, I take it?"

"Yeah. Just now. We've all been downstairs."

"I know. The announcement. I was there, too."

Cho started to say something, but stopped short, giving Jane a quizzical look. Jane had never seen quite that expression on the man's face before. Before he could consider it further, Cho entered Lisbon's office and handed her the file. He spoke briefly, and her eyes, guarded and apprehensive, swept toward Jane where he stood in the hallway. She nodded stiffly, and Cho exited.

"You can go in now."

_My, how very formal we are when we're being civil._ He needed to get his thoughts under control, or he was going to blow this. He walked into her office and motioned toward the office chair in question. She waved her hand toward it as if to say, "By all means."

She didn't seem surprised to see him. She'd gotten a call from Eleanor, he suspected. He wondered what their conversation had been like and realized it couldn't have been very long. Lisbon had been downstairs with everyone else when he arrived. He sat down in the chair and crossed his legs, for all appearances, completely relaxed.

"I'm glad you're here, Jane. We need to talk."

"That's precisely _why_ I'm here, Lisbon."

At least they'd reached an understanding on _that_. Lisbon dove straight in. There was no game, no strategy. The only surprise was what she wanted to talk about.

"Jane, nearly a year ago, you came face to face with Red John. You maintained at the time that he said nothing to you. I know that isn't the case. I have always found it very difficult to believe that meeting one another in the flesh, killing the people who intended to kill you, he wouldn't have taken the opportunity to say _something_, even if just to taunt you. I assume from your refusal to tell me what was said that it was more than that."

"Lisbon, I told you at least twice at the time that Red John said nothing."

"And that's still your story?"

"Yes." He knew he had copied the first stanza of "The Tiger" in his journal but hadn't written any explanation for its inclusion.

"And Todd Johnson?"

"What about him?"

She didn't like this, the two of them dancing around the truth. Jane wasn't sure exactly how much she knew and didn't want to give anything away, and she didn't want him to know that after Minelli, her main source of information had been Madeleine Hightower. For some reason, she still wanted to give him a chance—a chance to show he could be trusted, to come clean on his own.

"Jane, I've watched you, been by your side for years—I've seen what happens to you when you come in contact with anything having to do with Red John. You had that same expression, the same manner after Todd Johnson died, and I couldn't help but think that he was somehow connected to Red John. Minelli as good as confirmed it. Did Todd Johnson say anything to you in the hospital?"

"Lisbon, I don't know what Virgil told you, but there must have been a misunderstanding. You told me yourself that the doctors had said he wouldn't regain consciousness before he died."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I'm afraid it's the best answer I have."

She frowned down at her hands where they rested clasped on her desktop. He was lying to her again, though now not by simple omission. These weren't just left-out truths. They were bold-faced lies, questions answering questions to help him avoid telling her what he knew about Red John and about everything he had been doing behind her back. Her fingers clenched, and he could tell she was fighting the urge to rub at the line where her brows furrowed. Hands still tightly clasped, she rocked them against the desktop three times then looked up at him.

"You've left me with no choice then." He didn't like the finality of that.

"This unit no longer has the . . . integrity to deal with the Red John case." Her eyes clouded with bitter disappointment, and she looked back down at her hands. "LaRoche has asked me to consider our standing on it, and I'm going to recommend to him that it be turned over to Serial Crimes."

"Well, Lisbon, that causes something of a problem. I work the Red John case."

At that her eyes lifted back to his, clear with resolve.

"Feel free, Jane."

The shock was so great, so sudden that he lost the chance to hide it. After all these years, after all they'd been through, after everything . . . She was cutting him _loose_? Suddenly, in less than twenty-four hours, it was over? Had he really done anything so bad, so unforgivable?

"I just hope you'll do me the courtesy of letting me know your final decision."

_Final decision? Am I even being offered a choice?_

"We both know what that will be."

Her eyes lowered to her hands again. They separated and laid flat, palms down on her blotter where she seemed to study them for a moment. She swallowed hard, and he realized how difficult this was for her. She had just admitted aloud that her team, that _she_ didn't have what it took to work a case. _"No longer has the integrity."_ Integrity was her stock and trade. She really didn't need to do anything this drastic. She was being overly dramatic.

"Lisbon, this doesn't have to be—"

Her abrupt rise from her chair cut him off.

"I'll go talk to LaRoche right now. No sense putting it off. He's probably expecting me." She was nervously tapping her fingertips on the desktop now, looking everywhere but at him. She started arranging things. "Taggert is a good investigator. Not particular about coloring inside the lines. You'll probably get along very well."

Her voice faded, and she practically fled the room. He felt uncomfortable sitting alone in her office. This room had offered him much over the years: comfort, calm, companionship and confessional. He felt out of place now. He stood and, out of habit, walked to the bullpen. The white couch looked out of place there. Resolutely facing away from it, he lay down on his brown leather and closed his eyes, waiting to hear his fate.

It didn't take long. A few minutes later Lisbon leaned into the room.

"Team meeting. In my office."

He stood and looked at her tentatively, waiting to see if he was still included.

"Jane, LaRoche wants to see you upstairs."

And that was that. He wasn't one of them anymore. Off the roll. Out of the family. He watched them file out of the bullpen toward her office without so much as a backward glance. He had known the day would come when he would no longer be counted among them, either through death or misdeed. What he had not expected was the heavy emptiness. They were about to go through one of the worst moments of their lives as a team, and even though he hadn't killed Red John or died trying, it was still somehow his fault. He couldn't just walk away.

He moved into the hall as if to answer LaRoche's summons and sidestepped into the break room where he could covertly watch them through the blinds.

Lisbon had taken position, standing in front of her desk and leaning back against it. He knew her knuckles must be white from gripping the edge of the desktop. Rigsby stood across the room, mirroring her position, leaning against the file cabinet while Grace sat in the office chair near her boss. Cho stood, floating and detached in the empty space between the other two, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

Lisbon spoke, looking down and away, unable to meet their eyes. Just two short sentences and Grace sprang from her chair even as Rigsby pushed himself off of the cabinet, both of them exclaiming in indignation. Cho waited, unmoving and seemingly unaffected by what Lisbon had said. She raised one hand and looked at each of them as she spoke, assuring and calming them, no doubt insisting that they accept the bitter pill, that they continue in their work, that this in no way reflected on their abilities, that they were good cops, and that they would get along without him.

Grace's head and shoulders slumped, and Lisbon, in a rare moment of intimacy, put her hands on the young agent's shoulders, willing her to raise her head. When she did, Lisbon looked directly into her eyes and spoke. Grace nodded and swiped at her eyes. Lisbon patted her shoulders and released her, and Grace left the office. Rigsby made to follow her, pausing at Lisbon's side as if to say something, thought better of it and headed back to the bullpen. Cho watched them leave then headed to the door. Lisbon leaned back against her desk, and Cho reached for the door and pulled it shut before he locked it.

Her second-in-command moved to the desk and leaned next to her at her left side. His right hand raised behind her and settled on her right shoulder just at the crook of her neck. She didn't so much lean against him as sag. He said something, and she turned to look at him and nodded. Jane could tell what she was saying. _"Yes, yes it is."_ She was taking the blame, shouldering the guilt. Was there no end to this woman's martyrdom? St. Teresa had failed to work a miracle, and now there was hell to pay?

Cho said something else and squeezed her shoulder, and she raised her left hand to cover his and leaned her head over onto where they joined there. In over four years, Jane had never seen Cho touch her. Before he had come along, he supposed Lisbon had been closer to her second than anyone. Had Cho felt so easily replaced?

He shook himself, displeased with his line of thinking. This was undoubtedly for the best. It would be strange for a while, but they would be fine. And so would he. He glided silently out of the break room and headed for the stairs.


	8. SharkInfested Waters

**Thanks again to everyone who continues to support this story. Your reviews and messages have been so encouraging.**

**I do not own The Mentalist or any of it's regular characters. If I did, I would have produced enough episodes to adequately fill the season without re-runs. So there, Bruno.**

8. SHARK-INFESTED WATERS

LaRoche usually kept his office blinds pulled up all of the way—sort of an I-see-you-and-you-see-me thing he supposed—and as Jane approached, he could see there was already someone in the office with the SCU boss.

Taggert.

Not wasting time seemed to be the order of the day. He stood for a while watching them. There was a lull in their conversation, and LaRoche's eyes drifted to the hall. Upon noticing Jane, he turned back to Taggert and picked up their conversation once more. He knew Jane was watching, and he would let him, give him time to observe and measure his new "handler". It didn't take long. When he decided he'd seen enough, he pulled the door open and entered.

"And here he is. Agent Taggert, this is Patrick Jane. Jane, Agent Ron Taggert."

The two men shook hands, Taggert a bit too firmly. _Aggressive and controlling to cover his insecurity. Wants to give the appearance of being outgoing to take the edge off of his assertiveness._

"Good to meet you, Jane. I've heard great things about you."

A politician in the making. Even LaRoche had the good grace to look away and smirk.

"Well, Ron—I'm sorry, do you prefer Ron or Taggert? Taggert, is it? Hm. Well, I'm afraid I was a little late to the confab, so I don't know much about you."

"Oh—well—I could—," Jane couldn't resist a sidelong glance at LaRoche. Madeleine would have sat, prim and proper, subtly watching him with good-humored disbelief. LaRoche didn't give so much away, but Jane could tell he didn't like Taggert either. It occurred to him that LaRoche had not been at the announcement. As acting head of the SCU, he should have had some input into the decision, but it was clear to Jane that the man had had no hand in this. It took Taggert only a few seconds to regain his polished veneer.

"I was with the LAPD for twenty-five years, working vice for two years then homicide for the rest of my stint. I enjoyed a long, productive career there, and now I've come to the CBI to broaden myself professionally and hopefully to add something useful as well."

Oh, come on. This guy was going to catch Red John? Lisbon had solved some of the most difficult cases in the history of San Francisco and then the state of California. She had built her career on them. Taggert was still looking for the case that would _make_ his. LaRoche flashed him a look that was startlingly like one Madeleine would have given him, unmistakable in its message. _Behave_. LaRoche needn't have bothered. He had no intention of getting off on the wrong foot with Agent Taggert.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries with LaRoche then left his office together, his new boss telling him a little about the other agents on his new team.

"There's Giles—real nose for forensics. Good in the interrogation room. Ethan Weis is our computer guy. And Andre Morgan—we call him Andy—originally from Jamaica. Hardly any trace of an accent, though. Cool as a cucumber."

By now they had descended one floor and actually reached the Serial Crimes bullpen. As they walked through, Taggert introduced him to each man. Rich Giles, about Jane's age, medium height and build with a slight paunch—Jane guessed from a drinking a little too much beer—motioned at him in salute. Ethan Weis was younger by about ten years. He rose, reaching up in a habitual gesture to push his glasses up at frame's center before extending his hand. Andre Morgan, skin a rich pecan color, tall and lean, only turned and looked him up and down once without actually looking him in the eye. He didn't like being called Andy but didn't care enough about what Taggert said to correct him.

This was no team, and they didn't respect their boss.

Taggert moved between their desks toward his office, and Jane knew he was meant to follow. Once inside with the door closed, the other man turned to him and the veneer that had been in place for public display fell away.

"Look, Jane, let's get something straight up front. I've heard about you, and I'm not about to put up with the crap Lisbon was willing to swill through. I don't know what your _relationship_ was like with her, but in this unit I'm the boss, and I call the shots."

Jane's body relaxed, and putting one hand in his trouser pocket, he leaned back against the office door frame before he answered in a voice smooth as silk. Lisbon had learned to be wary of that voice.

"Fortunately, Taggert, that's exactly what my _relationship_ with Agent Lisbon was like. Just as fortunately, she was very good at it. Hopefully there's no reason why _we_ can't get on."

He let the implied insult hang in the air. He was glad it was Friday. It would have been a long week.

Taggert looked him up and down, trying to decide if it was worth it to put this cocky s.o.b. in his place before jerking his head sideways in an impatient sign of dismissal. Jane was glad enough to obey. He walked out in the bullpen and stopped short.

No couch. Just a desk in the corner. At least it was near a window. He realized he would need something to do with his hands. He headed for the break room. It was messy with undisposed-of paper cups. There were dried coffee drips on the counter. They shared the break room with Organized, and, apparently, no one between the two units was too particular about their surroundings. He searched through the cabinets. Not a teacup or bag to be found. Only coffee and powdered creamer, and the latter looked months old. Relieved to find an unopened water bottle in the woefully under-stocked fridge, he headed back to his desk.

He perched uneasily on the chair, testing it for strength and comfort. Finding it not too bad, he pulled himself forward to his desk. There was a computer and phone. He settled into a game of on-line chess and counted the hours.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

The following Monday, Jane walked into the bullpen at just after nine o'clock. He turned from greeting one of the uniformed officers in the hall to find three pairs of eyes looking at him in varying degrees of suspense. Even Andre gave the impression of having been waiting for him. His gaze traveled past them to the back corner of the room where his cookie-cutter desk had been pushed up against the wall and to the side.

In the corner, under the window, sat the white couch—_the couch I bought for Lisbon_—complete with pillows and throw. Whether she had sent it down for his comfort or her peace of mind, he didn't know. Probably both. As he moved closer to it, he saw that the tea caddy she had bought for him under the guise of more efficiently stocking their break room was resting on one of the two seat cushions, along with a small box that held two turquoise tea cups and saucers. He blessed her even as something tightened in his chest. Just a slight pang. It would fade.

He sat on the couch, testing it, as if to see if it felt the same, and was surprised to feel that it didn't. That, too, would fade. He would have rather had his old brown for comfort's sake, but it was CBI property, and this would do, even though it so obviously didn't fit in with its surroundings. It had been perfect in Lisbon's office.

This whole fading thing might take a while.

He looked up and found the same three pairs of eyes on him.

"So . . . ," Giles began. "Looks like somebody misses you."

He didn't like the tone, knowing it was an indication of where the conversation was headed. He could tell Giles had been waiting for this all morning, since the couch had been brought in.

"Not at all. Just returning my property to me."

"Your property?"

"I bought the couch a while back. It's mine, and Serious Crimes just sent it down." He didn't want to bring her name into it.

"I never saw this couch in SCU."

"It's new."

He lay down and closed his eyes, hoping that would be the end of it. Weis snickered. _The little drip_.

"Well," Giles continued, "I guess it must have a lot of _sentimental_ value."

Jane opened one eye to look at them. Giles had a small pooling of jelly at the corner of his fat mouth from his morning donut. Weis was grinning like an idiot. Andre only looked at him, waiting.

"You can settle a long-standing debate, Jane. Tell us . . . does Lisbon like it on top?"

He bit back the killing retort that came to his tongue and the urge to smash his fist into Giles' ugly pig face. He needed to stay on their good side as long as he could. He swallowed the bad taste that accompanied that thought and opened his other eye.

"If I answered that, I'd only be guessing."

Giles looked at his comrades for encouragement to keep going. Weis nodded at him, still grinning like an idiot. Andre's expression gave no indication what he thought one way or another, but he certainly wasn't going to say or do anything to stop him. Giles turned back to Jane.

"Oh, come on. You saying after seven years of working at close quarters, all that time in the field and out of town, working practically _one-on-one_-," he leered at the phrase, "—you telling us you never hit that?"

A low laugh broke from Weis. Andre's look was bent on Jane now, waiting for his response. All of this registered on the edge of Jane's consciousness. The main of his attention was focused on Giles, and he felt his upper lip spasm in a fleeting snarl.

"I'm saying that being a man and not a rutting pig—" he surveyed Giles' person in an up-and-down glance of unveiled contempt, "—it wasn't an issue."

Andre's mouth twitched, and Weis let out a drawn out "Oh-h-h-h-h" as Giles sputtered for a comeback. He fell upon something that, for him, must have been old and reliable.

"What are you? _Gay_?"

"Yeah," Weis echoed, "what are you? Gay?"

Jane looked the younger man up and down with a provocative leer.

"Yes, Ethan. Exactly that."

Now Weis sputtered, and Giles' eyes widened in disbelief and revulsion. Andre jerked his head back to his computer, his face turned completely away from the others.

Giles stood and strode from the room, Weis hard on his heels as if to find protection in his shadow. Jane situated himself more comfortably and closed his eyes, folding his hands over his chest and crossing his legs at the ankles. Andre snickered but didn't turn from his computer.

"I gotta hond it to ya, mahn. Ya gonna ahd a lotta colla to de plaze."


	9. Treading Water

9. TREADING WATER

The next two days were spent going over cases. Serial Crimes was very specialized, and right now in the state of California, only five cases had been turned over to the CBI. Two were out of Los Angeles, one was out of Oakland, and all three were several months old. A fourth was a relatively new case that had just been pronounced as serial with the third victim of similar appearance and specific kill method. It had come to the CBI because of an overlap in jurisdictions and lack of cooperation between locals. Red John made five. The sessions were endless, a nonsensical hashing and rehashing of clues and evidence that didn't lead anywhere. If it did, three of the cases would never have made it to the bureau. Jane didn't remember the last time he'd been so intolerably bored.

And so it was, mid-morning on Wednesday, Jane found himself sitting in the FBI parking lot. He had told his new team the second lie (though he was certain they doubted the first), informing Taggert of a standing appointment he had with someone at the Federal Bureau. He let Taggert believe it was something he couldn't discuss. That part, after all, was true. He surveyed the building, wondering how he would get to Eleanor this time. He was sure the same doors wouldn't miraculously open to him now. Maybe he would try presenting his CBI credentials and just asking for her.

It worked like a charm. The fact that Eleanor had given instructions to the guards in reception that he was to be shown directly up made it even easier.

Her hair was flipped up with some kind of clip that couldn't quite capture all of the strands. The bright green short military-cut jacket allowed only a peek at the sapphire blue shell that perfectly matched the pencil shirt, opaque stockings and ankle boots. The muted gold filigree rings that lined the fingers of her left hand looked like a set of brass knuckles from Tiffany's. She was reading from some huge tome again, this time at her desk as the book actually was too large for her to hold, and when she looked up, her brown eyes bugged at him through the same high-powered reading glasses.

"Thank _goodness_! It's been _six days_—if I had to read much more of this stuff, I'd go nuts!"

She stripped off the glasses and rose to meet him, and he couldn't help smiling at her. There was no dissimilation in her greeting, and it seemed forever since someone had been glad to see him.

"How are you, Eleanor?" He couldn't help but notice she seemed a little buzzed.

"Bored. All I see all day is money crime." She continued in a nasal voice. "Profile this, Dr. Bradley, profile that, Dr. Bradley." She reverted to her natural voice and held out her hands, palms up. "It's _money_ for cryin' out loud! Terrorism or greed! Take your pick! Tea?"

"Please."

She walked to the credenza and pulled a pitcher of filtered water out of the mini-fridge, started the electric kettle and set up the tray, chattering as she moved.

"I understand there have been changes at the CBI and in your work situation. Taggert and Giles I know. Weis is new. Morgan's a bit of a mystery—more there than meets the eye, I think. Maybe more than the others combined."

"What do you know of Ron Taggert?"

"Ego and intellect are at two different ends of the size spectrum, and it would be better for everybody if they traded places. Got his eye on a seat in the state legislature. Hoping to grease the wheels with a brilliant career in law enforcement."

She turned from where her hands were still putting tea in a strainer and leaned her upper body toward him, speaking in a confidential tone.

"Between you and me, I think he's running out of time."

Exactly as he suspected.

"And the others?"

"Richard Giles. Career-long CBI. Eagle eye on the crime scene. Murder in the interrogation room as long as intimidation can get the job done. If something more subtle is called for, you want Morgan. Andre Morgan became a U.S. citizen twelve years ago in Miami and went through the academy there. Never been in trouble. Very active in the local Jamaican community. Doesn't much care for his boss. Isn't too impressed with his co-workers either."

"And Weis?"

"He can work a computer."

Jane wondered, not for the first time, why anyone would've thought this team could catch Red John. The kettle gave the ready signal, and she poured the hot water into the prepared and waiting cups, carried the tray across the room and set it on the coffee table before joining him on the couch.

"Eleanor, you would've made an excellent fake psychic."

"Tell me about it. You still want the clover honey, even though you know _she_ brought it?"

Something occurred to him.

"Why did she? She had to have known I'd notice, that I'd figure it out. It wasn't part of some plan to lure me in."

She shrugged as she took a sip. Formosa Oolong today.

"You tell me. You were the actual fake psychic."

"I guess she felt guilty."

"Oh, that would be a given."

"And maybe she wanted to make sure I had something . . . comforting?"

"That's pretty much the M.O. for Saint-I'm-gonna-mother-ya-til-ya-do-what-I-want-and-straighten-up-Teresa. I've seen it before, but not to such an extreme."

He paused mid-sip and frowned at her over the rim of his tea cup.

"Oh, believe me, brother. You're a special calling, a vocation unto yourself."

"Why do you think that was?"

_Was?_ And this guy was supposed to be smart.

"Again, you tell me."

"Maybe she thought—Eleanor. You're psychoanalyzing me."

"How so? You're doing all the work."

"You know what I mean."

"Well, if you've got it all figured out, you might as well go along with it."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Life rarely does, Patrick."

"Could we stay on track? Maybe a linear conversation?"

"Why? Are we talking in circles?"

Was this how Alice had felt with the Mad Hatter?

"Eleanor, everything is so mushed up right now. I really need to hear sense, preferably from someone who's not angry with me. If I promise to talk and answer your questions, could we please just have a normal conversation?"

"We can try. Normal away, Sweetie."

"I wrote in my journal. Lisbon knew about it, but she never looked at it. Never even asked to see it."

"Yes?"

"I copied some of the Red John case files, but they were pages from reports I'd seen before, so they weren't technically off limits."

"Ye-es?" If he was looking for absolution, he was barking up the wrong psychiatrist.

"Dr. Montague gave me the predilection report, so I didn't know I wasn't supposed to have it."

"Then why didn't you tell Teresa you had it? Why did you keep it a secret?"

He was uncomfortable with the questions but only because he knew the answer.

"I'm not certain," he lied.

"Aanh" It came out low and nasal, like an electric buzzer. "Wrong answer."

"I didn't want her to know I had it."

"Beca-a-a-use?"

"Because Red John was—_is_ mine."

"Which is also why you illicitly copied parts of files, lied to her about conversations you've had, and did everything in your power, took advantage of her compassionate nature, fostered the type of relationship that would make her believe looking at your journal would be a grave breach of confidence."

"Yes."

"And you're not troubled by any of this."

"Not at face value, no."

"I thought we were going linear."

"I'm not troubled in the context of my hunt for Red John. But I am troubled in how it's fractured my relationship with . . . the team."

"Does _the team_ matter, Patrick?" Was he being purposely ambiguous or just clueless?

He sighed heavily. "Yes, Eleanor, quite a lot as it turns out."

She considered him and what he had said a moment then slid her hand under the cushion on which she sat and pulled out the brown leather-bound volume. His smile when he saw it was rueful, as if now that he might get what he had wanted, he wasn't sure it had been worth the cost. She was glad to see it, but couldn't resist a tease, pulling it back from him.

"If you go all buggy eyed and start calling it your Precious, I'm just going to shoot you and call a custodian."

He chuckled at her genuinely, and she took heart. She made to hand it to him, but when he took hold of it she didn't let go, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

"There's no point in my keeping this now. And even though I know better than to think you're actually _behaving_, I think it's all right for you to have it back. But I have some questions, if you don't mind?"

They sat like that for a few seconds, each of them holding the journal with both hands, each trying to gauge the other. Finally, she relinquished it, and he turned to face the coffee table squarely and opened the book flat.

She turned the pages, knowing exactly the place for which she searched. She smoothed the open volume and pointed one perfectly manicured finger to a stanza of poetry.

"What's this?"

It almost choked him to answer her. If he gave that away, he was giving away everything.

"It's the first stanza of—"

"'The Tiger'. I know what it is. I mean _why_ is it written in here? And why is the page criss-crossed with notes written in _five_ different colors of ink?"

"I was experimenting with it."

"Yes, yes, I see that—assigning numerical values to the letters, labeling literary mechanisms—I see all of that. But why? Why is _this_ stanza of _this_ poem important?"

He breathed deep, and she thought he would answer her. She had already guessed, of course—Teresa had confirmed the date in the upper right corner of the page. But he really did need to say it out loud. When she realized he just couldn't, she took pity on him.

"I told you I didn't think anything in here was madman ramblings. You're not what I would consider a completely _rational_ man, but your mind is nothing if not completely logical. This poem has nothing to do with anything else in this book, and I know its inclusion did not simply erupt from your own thinking. This is it, isn't it? It's what he said to you."

He closed his eyes, and his breathing seemed to cease. After a few seconds, he gulped on a deep inhalation and nodded.

"Do you see it as some sort of clue?"

He opened his eyes and looked down at where her finger still pointed to the page. He was suddenly so tired. His eyes were dry and heavy, and he wanted to lie down and sleep.

"I think so . . . I thought so. I don't know what it is anymore."

He wasn't going to ask her opinion, but lack of invitation had never stopped her before.

"I don't think it's a clue. It might be how he sees himself or how he wants you to see him. Do you read Blake? Did you before this?"

"I own a copy of his works, and I've kept it at the office before."

"He may have just wanted you to know how close he is. Or, he may have known you wouldn't tell and this would be a wedge he could drive between you and . . . the team."

Could that be? If so, Lisbon had been right. He had played into Red John's scheme, letting him win. He felt _so_ tired.

"Even—," she continued, "—if you write out the whole poem and assign numerical values to all of the words, all of the letters, it still doesn't mean anything. Even if you try it in different languages, it's still—"

She cut off abruptly and looked at him, realizing he was watching her with a bemused smile.

"Eleanor, when was the last time you slept? An actual good night's sleep?"

She looked away, uncomfortable for the first time in his presence, and she answered him in a small voice.

"Since I found the poem."

He kept looking at her, and she pulled away from him, refusing to meet his eyes. He suddenly laughed, and his throat felt scratchy. She was just as messed up as he was. And Lisbon liked her. And trusted her. He felt warm and relieved. She shook off her discomfort and flipped through the pages, still in pursuit of something.

"And this . . . Todd Johnson . . . He was part of Red John's network."

He looked at her sharply. That had been a statement, not a question. He wondered how she knew, but the memory of that night pushed everything else out of his thoughts.

"They said he wouldn't regain consciousness, but he did. After Lisbon walked away, just before he died, he turned to me and said, 'Tiger, tiger'."

His face was a mask of anguish. He had been so near to someone who knew Red John and had been just crazy enough to talk, maybe to have told something—_anything_—that would have brought him closer, and he had watched the man die before his very eyes.

"You've never told Teresa about either of these things? Why? What did you think she would do? Get to him first?"

He realized how ridiculous it sounded hearing it said out loud.

"There are other things in here, Patrick. Things that I would find very troubling if I didn't know you. For one, the graphic description of what you intend to do to Red John. I know you haven't told a lot of people about that. I'm sure they all know your intentions, but if they knew the specifics you'd be out of the CBI. Did you tell Teresa these things?"

"We talked about them, yes."

"And she never told." Eleanor said this to herself, wondering at it. She turned her full, energetic attention back to him. "Did you tell her other things? Things you didn't tell anyone else? Secrets you shared that she kept?"

"Yes."

She dipped her head and spoke quietly, as if she didn't want her books to hear.

"About where you were when you fell off the face of the earth for a while after your family was killed?"

She had seen the signs, little behaviorisms he still manifested, together with his complete invisibility during that time frame. She thought back to those early diaries. Who _on earth_ thought he was ready to walk back out into the world and reintegrate? And did he realize how fortunate he'd been, how utterly miraculously blessed to have fallen in with the company he had?

He had paused to consider her question. His breath caught again, but answering was easier this time. Still, he only nodded.

"Other things?" Again, a silent nod.

"Patrick, much as I like you and want the best for you and would make all of this go away if I could . . . you're a fool."

"I know."

It was a painful admission for the smartest person in the room. If he had been honest with Lisbon all along, would it have really mattered so much in his plans? Would she have somehow gotten past him, gotten the upper hand? No, the only differences would have been that he would still be with the team and she would trust him, maybe been closer to his objective with her help freely given. And it would have been so much easier talking to her than the painful, drawn out confessions to Eleanor just now, words made thin and dry from being locked away for so long, held close the way a miser guards his wealth but finds no pleasure or comfort in it.

The reality and sense of all of it pushed down on him like a heavy weight, crushing him into Eleanor's couch. He had held something of real value and had let it just slip through his fingers. Someone whose trust mattered had trusted him, whose friendship was of worth had befriended him, and he had traded a pearl of great price for words on a page and a madman's whispers.

He inhaled a ragged breath.

"I need to get back."

"Not yet, you don't. You're tired, and you'll be of no use and will probably say or do something to get yourself in trouble. Lie down here and rest a while. Taggert's got nothing that requires your immediate attention at the office—idiots have all the time in the world."

He let her turn him and help him lie down on her couch, and he folded his arms across his chest and curled onto his side. She covered him with a warm throw and smoothed his hair back from his forehead, her touch gentle as a mother's. She was surprised he had said so much. The break with the team had affected him more than he realized, and he was more fragile that she had thought. She had told Teresa she might have to pick him apart and put him back together. Patrick didn't need to be taken apart. Time and circumstances were taking care of that, and she wasn't sure how much of the former he had left. He needed a friend who cared for and understood him. The best candidate in her opinion was temporarily out of the picture. She quietly walked back to her desk and sat down once again to pretend to read the huge obsolete book that rested there.

She had gotten everything out of him she could for now, maybe for always. He needed so much more—the build-up of years of insecurity, distrust, guilt, shame, self-recrimination, self-reliance and pure loneliness going back far further than his family's death was taking its toll, and she worried that he was still hurtling toward a fearful, potentially fatal implosion of some kind that may not claim him as its only victim. The fact that recent events were weakening his defenses and barriers that kept his seething psyche in check made that inevitability a matter of sooner rather than later. But she knew he believed that his slightly unhinged state was necessary for him to carry out his murderous intentions. He feared that if sanity gripped him too firmly, he would be driven to rational thought and that hopes of exclusivity to Red John's demise would be lost. Still, she would do whatever she could for him. Just two visits and she was like goop. How in the world had Teresa withstood him for seven years?

Two hours later, after Jane vacated her couch and headed back to the bureau, Eleanor made the call. Teresa agreed to an afternoon appointment without hesitation. When she left a little over an hour later, she took with her a CD containing hundreds of pages of handwritten text and very troubling answers to a great many questions.

Eleanor watched her go, certain and uneasy that Teresa was holding secrets of her own.


	10. Castaway

10. CASTAWAY

Three weeks into joining Serial C.U. and Jane was living what he felt was a most unprofitable existence. They solved the most recent serial—at least that's what Taggert told the media. It was Jane, of course, that discovered the only intended victim had been the wife of a man who had wanted to be rid of her and had, in favor of skirting the community property laws of California, murdered her in a grisly manner then done the same to two other women of similar physical appearance to cover the crime. The killer had been nonplussed that no one was giving him points for stopping at three, thinking his "But I wasn't going to do it again" should have carried _some_ weight. There was little progress on the other cases, two new cases had been added to their load and Red John was eerily silent

Taggert barely put up with him and was always frustrated with trying to put him in his place. He was just as ineffective as Jane knew he would be. Giles pushed through work like a bull in a china shop, and a one-trick bull at that. Eleanor was right when she said intimidation was his strong suit. Ethan Weis was very good on the computer, but he lacked Grace's intuition in knowing what information was of use and what questions he should pursue. Jane preferred to work with Andre, and their methods and manner complemented one another, but their relationship could best be described as a mutually tolerant indifference.

He saw Lisbon from time to time in the reception area and had a few times managed to catch her eye, receiving a lift of the head and a not unfriendly look in recognition. He felt drawn to her and fought the urge to move to her, which, just like the strangeness he still felt lying on her couch in the wrong bullpen, still had not faded but contrarily and troublingly seemed to grow stronger the longer he was away from her. Their eyes would hold for a few seconds before one of her team members caught her attention in conversation, and he would feel a pang of loss. She looked drawn and tired, and her subordinates looked to be rallying around her. He guessed there were a lot of things that could have been responsible for her seeming lethargy, but he knew his infidelity and desertion must be at least near the top of the list. It hadn't affected her performance, though. Without him the close time was slower, but SCU still had the highest close rate in the bureau.

He had given up thoughts of visiting with her in her office. He did not want to face the prospect of being unwelcome and hadn't forgotten the awkward out-of-place feeling the last time he had been left there to wait when she had fled to LaRoche. Even the thought of actually enjoying her company was difficult to contemplate if all he had to look forward to afterward was going back to face the unit to which he was now attached—not to which he belonged. He would never _belong _there.

When he had realized that Lisbon was cutting him loose, he hadn't been able to comprehend exactly how that would feel. He was untethered, like an astronaut who had stumbled outside for a spacewalk without checking to make sure his cables were connected securely. He had only the smallest sliver of hope that he would ever be a part of her unit again. Those few glances gave him some comfort in knowing that at least in some infinitesimally small way he was still part of her life, even if briefly and only from across the room.

With the exception of those rare and too-short glimpses, the only bright spots were his regular visits to Eleanor. She had been surprised and so pleased when he kept coming. He needed a friendly face, and though she wasn't his therapist per se, he knew whatever he told her was kept in confidence with the exception of Lisbon, and he found he didn't mind that at all. Even if tenuous and second-hand, it was still a connection.

Eleanor's questions, sometimes amusing and sometimes outright bizarre, made him think. He had meant to bring up the gun Max Winters had given him at some point, but it always seemed to drift out of the realm of necessity. Their conversations so often went in unexpected, even absurd directions, and he realized that at some point he had come to neither want nor care to know the gun's exact location—it had, after all, never been part of the original plan. Their talks stretched him, and sometimes he could tell she was asking something Lisbon had specifically wanted to know about. Today there had been a few questions about Hightower. He wasn't quite sure what that was about, but it gave him hope that she might want to talk about it with him herself someday.

He had not been able to get away today until much later than his usual time, and he returned to find the CBI building, not surprisingly, nearly deserted as it usually was after six. He approached security and seeing Officer Powell, made to engage him in some friendly chit-chat.

"Anything happen while I was gone?"

"SCU made a big bust today. Agent Lisbon was shot at."

_Shot at, not shot. Big difference_. That had happened lots of times, so he wasn't too concerned. He did wonder over the note of sympathy in the guard's voice.

"I don't think it's anything to worry about, though, Mr. Jane. Just a flesh wound."

Wait . . . what?

"You mean she was _hit_?"

"Yeah—," he motioned to the side of his neck and reiterated, "—but it's just a flesh wound."

Everything went loud and fuzzy, and he could hear the ocean in his head. Officer Powell was still talking.

"Seemed fine though. Agent Rigsby kept trying to help her upstairs." He snickered. "She looked like she wanted to deck 'im. Even more than usual."

"She's here? At the CBI?"

"Yeah. Came back about a half hour ago."

He waited impatiently to be waved through security then made his way straight for Serious Crimes. The floor looked deserted except for the single light burning in Lisbon's office. He stepped to the door, but the room was empty. The break room was as well. Moving on, the bullpen was softly lit by the glow from the parking lot lights shining through the windows, and he could just make out her form lying on the brown leather couch. He didn't speak until he knelt on one knee beside her.

"Lisbon?"

She lay, facing away from him, in groggy, drug-induced sleep. The wound must have been on the other side. The skin he could see was as fair and perfect as it had ever been. The sound of his voice had roused her only slightly, and when she spoke, her voice was high and soft like a child's.

"Do you know . . . I can still smell you on this couch."

He put his hand on her head and moved in awkward strokes, forehead to crown, lowering himself so he could whisper in her ear.

"The white couch still smells like you, too."

He had noticed it, had nearly groaned aloud at the whiff of her scent the first time he'd laid on it. After several weeks, it was probably more a matter of his imagination, but it still seemed real enough, part of the torment of not being able to be near her. The thought registered but not the strangeness of it. He realized she had fallen back into sleep, a peaceful smile gently curving her lips.

His other hand moved to her shoulder and rested there for a moment before it moved, seemingly of its own accord, down the angle of her arm to the dip of her waist and over the swell of her hip. Her rise and fall felt good under his hand, and he moved it back to rest at her waist where her shirt had ridden up as she slept. The skin there was soft and warm, and he felt his fingers tighten into it.

The urge to move, to caress, to wander was suddenly so strong, his breath faltered, held tight in his chest. A feeling of abject and complete wantonness gripped him, and he gave in to the feeling if not the physical temptation of it, wanting that hand to move, willing it to stay in place. His breathing grew deeper, and it seemed he could feel his heart beating through and over his whole body. He needed to remove his hand, but when he did, he only wanted to replace it with his lips. He wanted to kiss her, touch her, taste her.

He had thought he would get used to not being near her, used to being without her, and his frustration and hopelessness at missing her and the feeling of loss growing stronger instead of fading as he had thought it would, hoped it would, hit him full force causing a rebound to the polar opposite so strong it practically blurred his vision. He had missed being _with_ her, and now—in this moment, _for_ a moment—when he could be completely unguarded with her, everything he had felt, all of the emotions he had kept tamped down, most of which he'd never even known he'd held bottled up inside of himself came pouring to the forefront like a river broken out of its bounds. He wanted to roll her over, turn her to him and hold her, roam over her, cover her. He felt a moan well up inside him and swallowed hard against it. He didn't dare touch her again because once he started he didn't think he could stop. He could taste the desire for her, like it was real and tangible, but he couldn't place the flavor, it was so new, so heretofore unknown to him. She needed to wake up, but he needed a moment. If she were to look at him, she would see. And she would know.

He suddenly remembered why he was there, what had brought him to her, and he had to know, had to make certain she was really all right.

"Lisbon."

Her eyes opened slowly, and she blinked, trying to clear the haze of sleep.

"Jane?" She didn't turn to him.

"What happened, Lisbon?"

"Koring." It was a case that was still open when he left. The leads had simply dried up.

"Cho found something in old property records. All came together after that."

"And you made a bust?"

"It was the brother."

She turned suddenly, rolling just her head and shoulders toward him to look him directly in the eye. He had managed to reign himself in, and he knew there was nothing to give his earlier thoughts and feelings away.

"Did you know?"

"No, Lisbon, I didn't. I wouldn't have let it go for so long if I did. I would've told you."

She nodded her belief in what he said, and her eyes drifted down to somewhere on his chest. He could see the bandage now. It covered most of the left side of her neck, from just above her collar bone to an inch below her jaw and wrapped from front to back. _Some flesh wound._

"Don't' you think you should go home?"

"I will."

He would've believed her if she hadn't closed her eyes and turned back into the couch.

"Lisbon, please. Let me help you up. You need to go home."

"I just want . . ." She dug herself deeper into the couch.

He looked down at her helplessly. She would be angry if he physically tried to make her do anything, and he was sure she shouldn't drive, but he knew she wouldn't want him driving her home. _He_ knew he shouldn't. Where were the others? Why had they left her here like this alone? She had probably ordered them to go. He would never have left her. He grimaced at the sudden bitter taste in his mouth.

"Lisbon. Teresa. Get up. Now."

She tried to snuggle deeper into the couch, and he felt the hair on his arms bristle against the fabric of his sleeve. She was trying to burrow into his scent. Everything in him softened to her.

"Come on, old girl. Let me help you. Just this once."

Her eyes shot open, and the pain medication she'd been given at the hospital hours earlier suddenly lost its last effects as her head cleared. She sat up and pulled away from him, steadying herself on the couch's edge.

"I'd forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"How good you are."

"What?"

She was suddenly tense and wary, and he didn't know how to get the sweet calm of the previous minutes back.

"'Just this once.' You said that to me to convince me to let Trina deGeorge off the hook for killing her father. You set me up."

"No. I didn't. It was self-defense. We couldn't be sure the courts would do the right thing by her, and we didn't want her to have to go into foster care."

Suddenly he felt things all going wrong, but he couldn't stop it. _Everything_ seemed wrong, and he could _never_ stop it.

"Not about her. You were setting me up," she repeated.

"For . . . what, exactly?"

"You said 'Just this once', but you didn't mean it. You thought if you could get me to do it for Trina that I'd do it for you, too."

He turned his head slightly, still looking at her, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"Lisbon, I never asked you to lie for me. I never asked you to look the other way. I never expected you to—I knew you wouldn't. Even though I knew you'd done it before."

She was wide awake now, and she drew back as if he had struck her. She knew what he was on about. Over a year ago, Bosco had arrested him for obstruction, and she had done what she had to do to get him out of it.

"You can't . . . you're throwing _that_ up to me? After what I did for you?"

"You were free to make your own choices. True, I asked you to get me out of jail, but I thought you would merely play on Bosco's feelings for you. You made the decision to use what you knew, what you had covered up for him."

"I didn't cover anything up. I just didn't . . ."

Her voice trailed off, and she looked at him, hurt that he would bring it all up, use it against her.

"We don't have to talk about this, Lisbon, and I'm not trying to convince you to anything."

This whole thing was going to hell, and he couldn't put the brakes on. Why couldn't he just shut up? He realized a lot of other things had been bottled up for a long time, and the events of the day as well as the past few weeks had unstopped it all—for both of them.

"But I did always wonder why you did for him what you would never do for me. And why you didn't realize that while he was fine with your keeping his dirty secret, you gave me no credit for not expecting you to keep mine when the time came."

She stared at him, her mouth agape. She had missed him so terribly, had wanted him back, knowing what that wanting must mean. When she'd been shot, she was glad he wasn't there, glad he hadn't seen it—that he'd been safe from the danger and from fear for her. She had felt him come into the bullpen even though she was nearly asleep, had felt him touching her, his skin almost pulsing against hers, not wanting to come completely awake, wishing she could freeze that dream moment in time. But now . . . where was this coming from? Why had she dredged this up? She knew he was telling the truth, knew he never meant to confuse what he wanted for Trina deGeorge with anything for himself.

He saw her eyes shift, moving back and forth, looking for a way to flee. Her breathing quickened, and she practically ran for her office, seeking sanctuary there. He caught the door just before she managed to pull it shut.

Once he was in, she backed away from him, her hands reaching behind her for some support. They found the far corner of her desk, and she held on. He kept his distance, circling around her, never taking his eyes off of her, coming to rest finally in the empty space where the white couch had stood. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't know why he suddenly felt so predatory, but she had started this. It had been a long time coming, and all bets were off.

"You let Bosco off, and just a few months ago, you let Danny go."

"Danny didn't kill anyone." It came out on a pained whisper.

"And Bosco?" She winced, but he didn't let that stop him.

"It must have been that—or something close. It had to be something that would have cost him everything. Something that would have cost _you_ everything if it ever came out. He wouldn't have caved for anything less."

"I was young. And he was my friend . . . my boss. I couldn't just—"

"Uphold the law? Expect him to face the consequences of his actions? I never asked for the same consideration. I would never have expected it. I don't think I would've even accepted it."

A sudden strength surged through her, and she pushed herself off of the desk but didn't move away from it.

"Only because you would have nothing _left_."

"Maybe . . . Probably. Still, in that one thing, I was a better friend. Since we're talking—clearing the air—" His voice was harsh now, and bitter.

"Why _would_ you do it for Sam and not for me? What was so special about him? About the way you _felt_ about _him_?"

Her face crumpled into a perplexed frown, and she was starting to tremble. He was pushing her too hard, especially after the day she'd had, but he couldn't let it go. Once he heard she'd been hurt, he could only think and feel in extremes. Her face colored, but this was no blush. It was an unnatural flush, like a fever. He started to relent. He would apologize and go, calling Cho to come and get her as he left. But now it seemed Lisbon didn't want to stop either.

"You're right. I didn't do anything about Sam. I let it go. He was a good cop, he had a family. I didn't want to see them all punished for what he'd done. Didn't want the force to suffer for it. But it changed _everything_. I couldn't look at him anymore. Not without seeing-" She swallowed the galling memory. "When he arrested you, I had to get you out. I _had_ to. And it would've ruined him, would've ruined us both. But I had to."

"Why? And don't say it's because I close cases."

She was getting that look again, like a trapped animal, looking for an avenue of flight. He felt badly, but he would make her answer.

"You asked me to."

He looked at her exasperated. _You've got to be kidding me_.

"I thought he was just trying to teach you a lesson. I thought that once you apologized and acted like you were sorry, if he could believe you'd back off and behave, he'd let you out and drop the charges. When I realized he had no intention of doing that, that he meant to go through with it, I did what I had to do."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't stand seeing you in there. Couldn't stand the idea of you being trapped in there. You can't even take being in the hospital for a few hours. How were you going to survive in there?"

"I was doing fine."

"For three _days_, Jane. What about three _years_? Or thirty? And what was I supposed to do? Visit you every Saturday? Check in with a case every once in a while, waiting for you to get out?"

"You wouldn't need to _do_ anything! Once I was sentenced, you could wash your hands of me!" What exactly were they talking about now?

"I couldn't do that! Or I couldn't then. I guess I have no choice now."

He didn't want to do this anymore. He wished he could just walk away, but he had pushed her, and it wasn't fair to not let her finish.

"What's different now?" He hoped he could bear the answer.

"I see things more clearly now. I was blinded. Blinded by friendship, by concern, by wanting better for you. Talking with Virgil that day, knowing how much you'd gone behind my back, what you were willing to do . . . Jane, you tried to pull _May_ into all of this. You don't really even know her. She's not a cop, but you were willing to pull her into your web, just like you've pulled the rest of us in. And wanting access to Kristina, and the gun . . . "

"How could you have been blinded? How could you not have seen? You can't accuse me of being dishonest—I didn't hide anything from you. I told you things I never told, never _meant_ to tell _anyone_!"

Something in what he said worked yet another change in her, and what was left of her calm disintegrated. He wanted to believe the events of the day were taking their toll, but he knew she was stronger than that. This was a build-up of years. She had more to say, and as she continued her voice got louder with each sentence. He felt something heat within him as she pushed on to get it all said, and anger surged through him at her next words.

"You told me what you needed to tell me, to make me do what you wanted me to do, to make me _feel_ what you needed me to feel . . . to make me be what you wanted me to be!"

"I _trusted_ you!" He shouted at her.

"_You manipulated me!"_ she roared back.

The silence was deafening. He drew back and looked at her as if he didn't know her. How could she think that? He had never even told Sophie Miller his specific plans for Red John. And that he'd been in a mental hospital? That he'd had a breakdown? The shock of comprehending the depth of her distrust quieted him, gentled him in his hurt. He spoke, his voice small in the pain-filled quiet.

"You really think me capable of that?"

"I think you capable of anything. Any lie, any con, any scam to get what you want."

Her voice broke on the last word, low and bitter, and for just an instant she looked broken in her whole being. But something from deep inside seemed to well up in her, bringing with it strength and conviction. Her next words were spoken with a desperation born—not of weakness—but of sheer desire for him to hear her.

"But I believe you to be capable of _everything_. Of honor and integrity, of loyalty and friendship, of something better than you are."

Her eyes looked back and forth between his, seeking something there, anything she could identify as evidence that her faith in him had some founding, but her gaze broke from his, and her eyes skittered back and forth and around the room searching for somewhere, anywhere to find purchase. She turned her head and seemed to suddenly focus on something out in the bullpen. He realized she was looking at Cho's desk.

"I told you there are some things you can't fix. I can't be like that, Teresa. I never could."

His voice was quiet, and he wished he could spare her the final revelation that all of her hoping, all her believing had been in vain.

"You made _promises_ . . . you said . . . I never wanted to fix you . . ."

Her eyes flooded with sudden tears as a harsh gasp tore from her body and with it a great shuddering wail.

"_. . . I was trying to save you!"_

Her sob shattered what was left of any hope. She looked away from him, trying to rein in her weeping. He took a step toward her, his hand out in an awkward attempt at comfort, but her eyes, now dark with bitterness swept back to him, her face contorted with scorn at his weakness and broken faith.

"Get out."

He froze, not believing she meant it, hoping she didn't, wishing he could undo everything that had brought them to this point. He wanted to comfort her, coax her to understand, to perhaps forgive, but Lisbon would not be moved.

"_Now_."

Unable to look at her and what he'd done to her any longer, he turned and strode from the room. The stairwell door crashed against the wall, flung wide behind him, and he flew up the stairs. He paced the attic's shallow depth, stopping suddenly to heave the makeshift desk out of the way to give himself more room, his thoughts running miles per second.

He couldn't be fixed. He couldn't be saved. _He wasn't worth saving_.

That thought was new, and it brought him up short to stare out the windows into the dark. He knew how broken he was. He knew how lost he was. But he had never before considered his worth. It had never been an issue. He had found worth in his father's eyes because of his usefulness and profitability. He had found worth in Angela's because of her love for him. He had found worth at the CBI because of his ability to close cases, and though he knew that's what she always said, there was some other reason for what he had found in Lisbon.

All at once he was consumed with a desire to find out exactly what that was. She didn't want to see him, and she wouldn't want to talk, but he would _make_ her tell him. He tore back down the stairs, wrenched the stairwell door open and ran to her office. But she was gone.

He ran to a window in the bullpen and looked down into the car park just in time to see her lights come on, dividing the dark before her as she and any hope he may have had for redemption drove away into the night.


	11. Marooned

**I'm not much on lengthy author's notes, but I need to say a few things.**

**First of all, I know I always thank reviewers for reading and reviewing, and I often mention your encouragement. Those aren't just pat responses—I am truly grateful for every message, every review, every word. I'm so pleased and honored that anyone even reads what I write.**

**Also, later today, I'm posting my Easter one-shot in my Holiday/Next Time series. Then I'll be taking a weekend holiday from posting this story. Lost at Sea will be back Monday.**

**While I'm at it, I may as well reiterate that I don't own The Mentalist or any of Bruno Heller's characters.**

11. MAROONED

_Todd, you repeat what I tell you now, and I will deny every word of it. If you truly want revenge, you have to be hard. You have to be dishonest and devious and cold. You can't let people see what's in your heart._

He opened his eyes, confused at what he was looking at. Lines angled awkwardly, metal defying gravity. He blinked, trying to clear his vision and rubbed his eyes roughly, then blinked and rubbed again. Rafters. He was lying on the makeshift bed in the attic. He hadn't been up here during the day as much since he'd started with Serial, preferring to sleep on the white couch. He swiveled his head slowly toward the bright light streaming in through the window and remembered trying to teach Todd Johnson how to cover his desire to kill.

He felt foolish. Fooled. He was a fool. Where had he heard that? Eleanor. Eleanor—and Lisbon—had been right about so many things.

He had lost so much—all he had ever really had. The two most beautiful things that had ever come into his life. And he was no closer to laying his hands on the dark and disfigured thing he had substituted for them than the day he had used Sophie Miller's weakness against her and walked out of the mental hospital. Paradise and Perdition. Now Lisbon was gone, and he felt the enormity of the loss but had no way of measuring it. What did it matter? She was just gone.

He pulled himself up and went to the nearest men's room to throw cold water on his face before he made the trek down to Serial. As he entered, Andre turned to him and calmly informed him that Red John had struck in the night. Taggert was on the phone, and Weis was looking up directions to the scene. Giles was walking back and forth between his boss and his desk, making arrangements, moving with all the self-importance small men usually attach to themselves and their endeavors. Only Andre Morgan seemed to comprehend the significance of this being the first Red John crime scene they would work as a team.

Marcie Watson's condo was on the south side of the city. The thirty-something blonde laid sprawled on her bed deflated in death by exsanguination, her glazed eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling, body mutilated by stun gun and blade. Weis left the room to puke in the bushes just outside the front door.

The forensic techs hadn't been ordered to wait for any kind of all clear from the team, so they were moving around the room while Andre tried to assess the scene. Giles remarked on his own observations, a couple of which were inappropriate, and Taggert busied himself with ordering the CSU's to do everything they were already doing, both techs barely hiding their scorn for his clumsy leadership. Jane knew to whom they were comparing him, and he once more felt a painful sense of loss. Besides her actual physical presence, Jane realized he was missing Lisbon as his boss, both for her good sense and the prestige of association with her. If he ever had the chance to enjoy either again, he would never take them for granted.

Crime scene covered, the unit piled back into their SUV, Taggert and Giles discussing the case in front, Weis still green around the gills sitting next to Andre in the middle, the latter clearly frustrated with not being able to work the scene adequately. Jane took a seat in the back to distance himself from them as much as possible. Once they got back to the bureau, nearly everything fell into place as usual. No evidence, no clues, no leads. The only difference was the way the team reacted. Weis was at a loss, not knowing what to look for on the computer. Taggert and Giles holed up in the former's office, periodically casting angry looks Jane's way, and Andre worked on his computer, pausing from time to time to make a note or check something off on the small notepad on his desk. Jane was struck again by the ineffectiveness of it all.

Thirty minutes in, Taggert got up from his desk and walked across the room to put his fist through the wall. The sheetrock yielded to the impact easily, and Jane couldn't help but smirk to himself. He knew how things worked at the bureau. Taggert would be looking at that symbol of his frustration and uselessness for a long time. Giles stomped out of the boss's office and over to where Jane lay on his couch.

"You got anything to add to the investigation, smart boy?" he snarled angrily.

"Like what?" Jane shrugged. "We were all there. You saw the same things I did. This is the way it goes. He makes a kill, we get a call, we show up, we leave with nothing. What made you think this time would be any different?"

Jane couldn't help that what he said seemed to irritate the agent even more—he knew a lot of his own frustration was to blame for his seeming indifference. Giles towered over him for a few seconds, fuming in his frustration, daring him to say something else, and Jane was relieved when the sense of what he said sank into the angry man's consciousness enough that he skulked away to his desk.

The rest of the day and most of the evening was spent in silent, pointless anger until Taggert sent everyone home. Andre was the only one who seemed reluctant to leave his desk. Finally, he too left, allowing Jane his first easy breath since they'd gotten the call that morning.

Over the next few days they accepted the fact that they couldn't move forward on the case and began to settle back into their usual monotonous and uneasy routine. Jane spent nearly as much time in the attic as he did in the bullpen, just as resentful of the team as they were of him with the exception of Andre, who at least had the good sense to leave him alone. He read and reread through his journal, now finding it of little use to him, a recounting of Red John's crimes and his own anger and hatred. It had been a week since Jane had fought with Lisbon and she had thrown him out of her office for what he assumed was the last time and a week since he had seen Eleanor as well. He knew he had been expected today, but he didn't have the strength to face her and didn't see the point of it anymore. The atmosphere of the CBI felt stifling now, so he waited for the day to pass then spent the evening driving around the city before heading up to the attic in the late early hours to try and get some rest before he faced the morning.

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

_He knew it was a dream, somewhere in that place between waking and sleeping. She was standing there, close but out of his reach, looking for something she had lost. He was watching her, and she must have felt his eyes on her because she turned to look at him with relief and welcome in her eyes. She said something, but it was lost in the harsh, metallic pounding sound. He reached for her, but suddenly he was too far away, and the pounding seemed to fill not only his ears but his eyes and skin and—_

"Jane? You in there? Jane!"

He was back upstairs in his aerie and had managed to find a few minutes sleep in the morning hours, only to dream of her. He wanted to keep sleeping, to stay there with the Lisbon who wanted him and was glad to have him back, but something was pulling him away.

"Jane!"

The metal door slid open, easily tossed with Cho's impatient strength. The agent stood looking at him, hands on hips.

"You look like crap."

Jane covered his eyes briefly trying to rub away the disappointment over the lost dream and pulled his hands down his face. He blinked at the sun streaming in, guessing it must be around nine in the morning then widened his eyes in an attempt to clear their bleariness.

"Believe it or not, I have no response for that."

"You've looked like crap for a few weeks, but now you _really_ look like crap. You've worn that suit the last three days. I assume you haven't showered in at least that long."

Jane had to stop and think.

"Your assumption would be correct. Good to know you haven't lost your touch."

"At what? Telling when you look like crap? I guess it's like riding a bike. Do those windows open?"

Jane swiveled his head to look up and over.

"There are handle thingies, so I guess, yeah."

Cho strode across the room and set himself to the task of opening one of the tilt-outs. When the metal lever—frozen from years of disuse—wouldn't yield, he looked around and, picking up a length of discarded metal pipe, hit the mechanism hard enough that it gave. The upper sash tilted out, and fresh air whooshed in, blowing dust and paper fragments in swirls with the first gust. Cho dropped the pipe on the floor, brushed his hands against one another and moved to where Jane lay on his makeshift bed. Tapping the consultant's leg, he waited until Jane pulled himself up then took a seat next to him. Lisbon must not be in yet in spite of the relatively late hour. Cho wouldn't be up here if there were a chance she would find out.

"You like it up here?" Cho asked looking around the space.

"It's quiet. And private. And people leave me alone."

"Charming. So what happened with you and Lisbon?"

"Oh, you know. I kept secrets, she didn't like it, she took my stuff—"

"I know about that. What happened a week ago?"

"I'm not sure I—"

"Don't. I know something happened. You look . . . and smell crappier than usual. And Lisbon's different. She won't talk about it, but she's stopped looking for you in the mornings in reception. And the way both of you are acting . . ."

"How's she acting?" He couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. He wasn't surprised that the others may have noticed something, but the fact that Cho felt he needed to talk to him about it was something altogether different.

"Like you. She's acting like you. She's working on something, got something going. She's secretive, and she's got this look in her eye. I think it's something to do with Red John."

"Why? You're not getting any Red John cases."

"Law enforcement that's worked with us in the past, some on Red John and some on others. They still consider Red John ours, call Lisbon with information. She passes it on to Taggert, but I think she keeps records for herself."

Cho paused, staring straight ahead, seeming to consider what he would say next. Jane wondered what information Lisbon had passed to Taggert and why he hadn't mentioned anything.

"I think she's in trouble."

Jane was jerked back into the moment by the barely audible shake in Cho's voice.

"What kind of trouble?"

The agent gave a tense shrug.

"Don't know. Just a feeling. Lisbon almost never keeps secrets. Not about the job and not from us. Not about Red John . . . It's starting to get to everybody. Especially Van Pelt. I don't know how much more she can take."

Cho paused there, and Jane felt something settle on him, fearful and heavy, and knew there was so much more the agent would never say out loud about where his own limits lay.

"You need to talk to her. Draw her out."

"She won't listen."

"She would if you—"

"It's too late, Cho."

Cho inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, releasing the breath through his nose. He slowly pushed himself up off the bed and walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold. He turned his head slightly over his shoulder, not quite looking back to where Jane still sat.

"We can't lose her."

Jane didn't know if he meant the two of them or the team or if he was speaking on behalf of all of Lisbon's acquaintance. He thought any guess was a good one.

"Call me when she gets in. I'll see what I can do."

Three hours later the bureau was in an uproar. Teresa Lisbon was missing.


	12. Distress Call

12. DISTRESS CALL

Van Pelt sat at her desk, blatantly watching him prowl around the boss's office, touching her things, picking them up and weighing them in his hands, stopping to linger a bit longer over something that momentarily caught his interest. How dare he walk around Lisbon's office acting like it was any other crime scene, any other victim's space, his hands in his pockets, eyeing her belongings with that infuriating nonchalance.

She was so angry she wanted to hit him. Hard. She wanted to knock him down and sit on him, gouge him with her fingernails. She knew it was mostly because of the guilt.

As she watched, Jane sat in Lisbon's chair and pulled himself slowly toward her desk. Bending his upper body first to one side and then the other, he went through the desk drawers. When he lifted the bottle of tequila onto the desktop, Van Pelt turned her gaze elsewhere, unable to watch anymore.

He had noticed immediately when he pulled the drawer open. The bottle sat at least a full inch higher than it usually did. He should know—he'd opened that drawer himself more than once. Careful to wait for Grace to finally look away, he reached down and tapped the bottom inside of the drawer. It sounded hollow_._ A false bottom ran the full depth, over eighteen inches.

Putting aside for the moment his curiosity at how she had gone about getting the thing fabricated, let alone how she had managed to sneak it in, he worked his fingers around the edge of the thin wood surface until he found the small notch that allowed him to dip his fingertip in and lift it out. He stared down at the contents, surprise mixed with hopeful anticipation, careful to school his expression and movements so that no one watching would know what he was doing.

The buzzing of his cell phone made him jump. _Eleanor_.

"Is it true? Do you know where she is?"

Her voice was so genuinely panicked—he knew she had no idea of Lisbon's whereabouts.

"She's not answering her cell, and we can't get a trace on it. I'm in her office, looking through her things, and I may have found something. Eleanor, do you have any idea of what she's been hiding?"

"I knew there was something, but I didn't want to push her—she's been so on edge . . . I should have _made_ her talk." He wished he could hug her, wipe away some of the anguish in her voice.

"We'll find her, Eleanor."

She didn't speak for a moment, and he could almost feel her torment over the phone.

"Call me if . . . when . . ."

"I will, Eleanor. Soon."

"Thank you, Patrick."

Relieved he could give her some comfort and eager to get into Lisbon's secret stash before anyone could notice what he was about, he gingerly lifted the loose papers to his lap, careful to keep his movements to a minimum. A surreptitious look into the bullpen told him everyone was too busy to watch him perform what they knew must be a fruitless search.

There were a few papers he recognized as copies of pages from his journal, the stanza of Blake's Tiger with his many scribblings on one of them. He frowned at two lines Lisbon had written just below, recognizing them almost at once.

_When thy little heart doth wake ,/ then the dreadful night shall break._

Why on earth was Lisbon quoting Blake's "Cradle Song"? And how did she even know it? As far as he knew, Lisbon was never one for poetry. And what did it have to do with "The Tiger"?

A notebook, a little larger than the ones she carried on interviews, held statements and questions that he could piece together enough to know some of what she was looking for, some about the investigation into Hightower. He smiled at her discernment. _Where was the gun?_ When Hightower's assistant had been questioned about seeing Madeleine heading up the stairs that day, no one else had thought to ask the young woman if she'd noticed her boss carrying a slide action repeating shotgun. _CBI vehicle at university night Montero died? Plates a no._ It was a piece of evidence LaRoche had against Madeleine—her alleged vehicle at the scene the night of the archeologist-turned-gun runner's murder. Considering the source and being certain of Hightower's innocence, Jane had dismissed it. Seeing it written in Lisbon's firm hand, he realized he'd made a grave miscalculation in not trying to find out just who from the bureau _had_ been there that night.

Notes he could barely decipher were scribbled on other pages. Something about Bertram and a note on LaRoche, the number 8721, what looked like an address on Carver Hill and other odds and ends that made no sense to him.

He shifted the notepad to get a better look at a notation Lisbon had made in a margin, and a folded piece of paper slid out and nearly dropped to the floor. When he unfolded the worn page, he recognized the handwriting immediately and realized with a sickening jolt why Lisbon had been so angry.

She knew about Hightower—must have known for weeks now. And she had never let on, never said a thing, never given him a chance to explain. But then, what right would he have had to expect it? And what could he possibly have said? All this time, he had been hurt and angry over a temporary loss of autonomy. And Lisbon had known _everything_—Red John's words to him, Todd Johnson, the CBI mole, Madeleine's innocence, his part in her escape. The enormity of his underhandedness, how Lisbon must have viewed his behavior and his utter _carelessness_ with her trust suddenly rose up before him in his mind's eyes like a great insurmountable barrier, and the picture of her, unyielding and determined, fire burning in her eyes, flashed across his memory.

"_But I believe you to be capable of everything. Of honor and integrity, of loyalty and compassion, of truth."_

Her faith in him was staggering. When he found her, how would he ever be able to look at her again?

He read through the letter, mentally ticking off the points of his theories, puzzling over two lines that sounded out of context and out of character for Madeleine before he read the last two paragraphs. Hightower's opinion of his relationship with Lisbon was . . . He didn't know what it was. He only knew he couldn't now accurately call it wrong or mistaken. Choosing not to try and wade through what those few lines did to his thinking, he reread those out-of-place sentences again. Something about them tickled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite work it out.

Forcing his thoughts back to the most important issue and believing clues to Lisbon's whereabouts were laced among her notes, his eyes went back to the number. Working purely on a hunch, he took out his phone and began dialing, using the most common Sacramento area prefixes coupled with 8217. The first number was a residential, the second and third were no longer in service. When on the fourth call, a competent but slightly bored voice answered "Sacramento Observer", he felt that tickle again and while he was satisfied that was one mystery solved, was also certain it was not specific to Lisbon's disappearance.

A further perusal of the papers and notebook yielded nothing he could work with, and a sense of lostness settled over him. When Cho had called to tell him LaRoche considered Lisbon missing and had given the order to use all means at their disposal to locate her, Jane's mind had automatically gone into investigation mode. Now that in very little time, both he and the team had done what they could and come up with nothing, all he could do was miss her and feel every ounce of bitter regret and shame at the way he had treated her and his stinging words the last time they had spoken.

He raised his head at the shuffling sound in the doorway, and it took a while for him to register he was looking at Van Pelt. The accusatory, suspicious expression with which she'd been regarding him through the blinds earlier was gone, and now she looked forlorn and miserably guilty, the cast of her face most probably mirroring his own. He tilted his head at her in question and sympathy, and she took it as a sign to enter the room. She wandered in, past the desk and over to look out the window. Jane took the opportunity to replace the contents of the drawer with the exception of the notebook, into which he slid Hightower's letter before he put it where he hoped was an inconspicuous place on the desk. He thought the young agent just needed company, remembering what Cho had said earlier about her discomfiture over Lisbon's secretiveness. But when Grace spoke, her words and tone arrested his complete attention.

"I should have said something."

"About what, Grace?"

"About what she wanted me to do. I should've said something, but she told me not to."

Her whole body trembled with a shudder, and Jane promptly closed the distance between them. He turned her to face him, ready to interrogate her, but when he saw her face contorted with anguish, he willed himself to remain calm.

"Grace? What are you talking about?"

"She came to me a few days ago, said she had a job for me. She wanted me to go to a security company, one we've dealt with before. I was to ask certain questions, ask to check something on their footage then try and get information on the set-up for a residential address, including cameras, alarms, everything. I asked why we couldn't just call the company and ask for what she wanted, but she said it was too sensitive."

She lowered her eyes and spoke in a whisper, almost as if she was ashamed of what she had done. "She said we had to keep it off-book. No one could know . . . _no one_."

Now she raised her eyes to his, searching, pleading for him to understand, looking for some kind of absolution for what she saw as a grave error on her part. He nodded kindly at her to continue, but his comfort only seemed to exacerbate her guilt.

"She's never asked me to do anything like that—never trusted me like that. I had to do it. She told me not to ask questions, not to search the address. I wanted to prove to her that I could . . . And when she asked me not to tell . . . "

Her face crumpled, and her body shook with the effort to quiet the great sobs that began to well up in her, one after the other. She'd done the same sort of thing for him dozens of times—the whole team had. But somehow, it was different with Lisbon. Grace's voice shrank to a pitiful, almost haunted whisper.

"I should have told. It's never good when we keep secrets from each other."

The sympathy Jane felt for her was near overwhelming, and he pulled her to him in a tight hug and stroked her hair as she buried her face in his shoulder. Using his body to stifle her weeping, he gave her the time she needed until the force of her conscience-stricken grief subsided enough for him to pull away just far enough to be able to look her in the eye.

"What was the address, Grace?"

Without hesitation and with great relief, she answered, "2130 Carver Hill. I should've told someone."

He grinned at her, feeling very relieved himself. "You told _me_, Grace."

"We should go check it out."

"I think that's a very good idea."

"I'll get the guys."

Grace headed for the bullpen, and Jane scooped up Lisbon's notebook and made a dash for the stairs. Piecing together her scribblings, he had an idea of who might live at 2130 Carver Hill. If he hurried, he'd have just enough time before the team got there.


	13. To the Rescue?

13. TO THE RESCUE?

He had parked his car two blocks over and walked, taking in his surroundings. It was a nice neighborhood—the kind people worked toward living in so their kids could go to good schools and the rest of their family could be impressed. Most of the houses had a kind of Americanized European styling—cottagey with stonework and gardens. Just the kind of place Jane would expect to find heinous betrayal and murder.

And find it he had.

The gun nudged into his back so hard, he could practically feel his skin bruising from the contact. He wasn't surprised when he was caught—it had actually been part of the plan. Getting Gale Bertram to bring him into the house was much easier than breaking in. And, he wouldn't have to look for Lisbon. Predictably, he'd been taken straight to her. The CBI director flipped a switch, pooling light around Lisbon where she sat on the floor, hands cuffed behind her, and she blinked at the sudden glare.

"Jane! What the hell—?"

She was mad and wary and looking at him like he had stolen her favorite gun. If she wasn't careful, the captive's façade she was trying to project would be a wash. Driving always had a way of ordering Jane's thoughts, and it had only taken about three minutes into the ride for the swirling activity of his mind to settle before he comprehended that Lisbon had intended to get herself caught. She'd known the security set-up of Bertram's house for days (alarms, no cameras), probably had been in and out before this. She'd gone back in broad daylight to the home of a Red John follower and informant who also happened to be the head of the number one investigative and law enforcement entity in the state. There would be no doubt that the security company would call their prestigious client as soon as they detected an intruder, knowing he would deal with the situation using his own formidable resources. Teresa Lisbon didn't leave the building without a plan, and what seemed a clumsy error had to have been a part of it.

"Shut up," was directed at Lisbon. She was apparently already on Bertram's last nerve. "Over there," was for Jane.

"Over where? If you're nodding or pointing or something, I can't see you." Making Bertram angry wouldn't have been Jane's preference, but they needed to keep him off balance, and Lisbon already had him primed.

"On the floor."

Bertram grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall, a few feet from where Lisbon sat. The director stepped back into the dark leaving only his hand holding the gun clearly visible in the limited light and making his shadowed facial expressions harder to read. Sliding down the wall to sit heavily on the concrete floor, Jane looked at Lisbon and gave her a sort of don't-worry-I'm-here-now-and-we're-in-this-together wink. A dark scowl was all he got in return. He knew what was important here, knew that words and deeds of the past years and last weeks couldn't merely be erased, but being here with her and finding her alive and safe, relatively speaking, made him light-hearted in spite of the circumstances. And—Jane being Jane—he couldn't seem to help himself.

"You know, I came here at great peril to my own personal safety to save _you_. I didn't expect any gratitude or anything, but the least you could do is dial the glaring back a bit."

"_Gratitude_? For _what_? Now I have to get myself out of this _and _worry about your sorry ass! If you want me to say thank you, you're going to have to say when because, frankly, Jane, I'm not feeling it."

"Lisbon, I am hurt. _And_ disappointed. What do I have to do? Actually take a bullet?"

"That may not be such a bad idea." They were suddenly reminded that Bertram was in the room, and he was still holding them at gunpoint. And now the gun was pointed at Jane.

"You don't want to do that." Lisbon's voice was soft and conciliatory. "Red John won't want him dead. He can't punish him, can't play with him if he's dead."

That sweet, musical voice of Lisbon's sounded downright creepy saying those things, and Jane couldn't help but look at her askance. Her lips pressed into a line, and she shot him a quick sideways glance. _Don't say anything_. Then instantly, she reverted to that round-eyed, opened-mouth, vulnerable look she took on when she was talking to someone dangerous, trying to make them feel like they held all the cards.

"You wouldn't want to do anything that displeased Red John, would you, Gale?"

Bertram was looking at her, eyes glazed and jaw slack. Jane almost believed she was hypnotizing him. But he shook off whatever momentary spell Lisbon had held him in and snickered humorlessly.

"You don't know what you're talking about. This has got nothing to do with Red John. I found two intruders in my house. One of them drew a gun on me, and I shot her before I realized it was one of my own agents. That's all that's happening here."

"But are you sure that's what _he wants_?"

Something dark and hurting flittered across Bertram's expression, and Jane got the feeling the situation wasn't exactly what he and Lisbon believed it to be. But Lisbon kept talking, kept trying to draw him out about Red John. Jane didn't know exactly what she was after, but it was something specific, something she was trying to get him to say. Bertram was elusive and he seemed to be getting more and more upset as she talked. Not angry, but more like a wounded animal. At least he hadn't launched into a boring and insipid monologue about the wonders of Red John.

"If you love him, you'll give him exactly what he wants. I can imagine that loyalty and trust are very important to him. You need to be loyal, Gale. You need to do and be exactly what Red John wants."

Apparently, that was exactly the wrong thing to say, and Bertram snapped.

"How dare you? You have no idea what you're saying."

The gun was pointing at Lisbon now, and Bertram leaned toward her out of the shadows, allowing Jane to see his face more clearly, his features distorted by maddened emotions of pain and loathing. Even more frightening was the look of resolve. Bertram had decided to pull the trigger.

"You don't want to do that either."

"What? You threatening me, Jane?" Bertram asked with a scornful snarl.

"Not at all. But she's right—Red John wants to punish me—"

"And killing her won't accomplish that?"

"Well, yes . . . ," Jane conceded. But just how much more was he willing to admit?

"But he will also want to play with me, and—" he took a deep breath, "—if she's dead, I won't be so interesting. He knows if I lose her, I'm finished."

Lisbon turned to look askance at him now, and he resisted the urge to meet her gaze, intent on watching Bertram. He didn't like what he saw.

"Well, that's a chance I'm willing to take."

Bertram's hand tightened on the gun, and Jane felt a sickening clenching in his chest at the realization that he could do nothing to save her.

Suddenly, Bertram's eyes rounded and his jaw went slack again, but this time in shock and surprise.

"Drop the weapon, Bertram, or I will put you down like a rabid dog."

That voice was music to Jane's ears. Madeleine was back in town.

Bertram only relaxed his hold on the gun momentarily then tightened his grip again as if he meant to carry out his intention, but the sudden jerk of his head told Jane that Madeleine was using the barrel of her own gun for not too gentle persuasion. His hand went lax on the weapon before it slid from his fingers.

"On your knees, hands behind your head." Madeleine kicked the fallen weapon away and peered at Jane over Bertram's kneeling form.

"Jane! What the hell—?"

"Seriously, Madeleine, you're not blaming _me_ for this? I was only following _her_!"

He stood and stepped to Lisbon, pulling her up by her elbow. Assuming the handcuffs that bound her were her own, he held his hand out, palm up, and wriggled his fingers.

"Keys?"

She rolled her eyes at him and pushed her right hip toward him.

"In my front pocket."

He reached into her jeans pocket but had to push hard to insert his fingers far enough to feel the tips of the keys. He realized he wouldn't be able to get them out that way and tried to rotate his hand.

"Jane," she let out an exasperated huff. "Stop feeling me up and just get the keys."

"I'm sorry, Lisbon-," his voice sounded anything but. "—but your jeans are skin tight, and I can't . . . seem . . . to . . . geez, how do you breathe or eat in these things . . . can't . . . _there_ . . . no . . ."

It was Hightower's turn to roll her eyes.

"When you two have finished with the party game, we need to decide what we're going to do with our prize here."

"_Yes!_" Jane extracted the keys and held them up in front of Lisbon's glaring eyes in triumph. He turned her around and unlocked the cuffs then made to reach around her waist in an attempt to return the keys to her pocket. She hissed at him and snatched them out of his hand.

"Whole minutes of my life I'll never get back," Madeleine mumbled to herself as Lisbon snapped the cuffs around Bertram's wrists. Out loud she said, "Would you two get a grip on what we're doing here? He didn't say enough for the wire, and we can't take him back to the CBI for questioning—we don't know if he's the only one."

Jane's eyes roamed over Lisbon's blouse, trying to detect the outline of the wire and recorder he realized she must have been wearing, and Lisbon slapped him on the arm. The words tumbled out of his mouth as if he was recovering from a glitch.

"We'll take him to the FBI. Eleanor can get things set up for us there."

"He won't go quietly. And you'll need to get him into the building without making a fuss."

Lisbon didn't even seem to consider her next move. She reached for Madeleine's gun, grasped it by the barrel and, raising her arm across her body and up in an arc, brought the grip down hard across the back of Bertram's head. The big man's body slumped forward heavily onto the floor. All three of them stood and looked down at him for a few seconds, frozen in surreal tableau.

"You know," Jane broke the silence, "it probably would have better for you to wait and pistol whip him into unconsciousness until _after_ we got him up the stairs."

Her poor timing was made a moot point as sounds of doors crashing open and three voices yelling "all clear" throughout the house sounded above them. Lisbon's high-pitched "Down here!" drew the team to the basement and Madeleine melted into the shadows. Cho, Van Pelt and Rigsby came one after the other down the steps to circle Director Bertram's body where it lay on the floor, a very visible welt purpling on the back of his head. All three looked at Lisbon to Jane and then to each other. When Cho sighed, a combination of relief and resignation, and holstered his weapon, the others followed suit. Without a word or a look back at their boss and ex-consultant, Cho and Rigsby lifted the man between them and dragged him up the stairs and out of the house, Van Pelt following behind.

Lisbon started after them, but halfway up the stairs, she realized Jane hadn't moved. She turned, laying her hand on the stair railing, and looked back down at him. He stood where she had left him, one hand on his hip, the fingers of his other hand moving back and forth across his chin as he contemplated something. Earlier, for an all too brief moment, it had been as if nothing had changed between them. Now uncertainty flooded through her.

"You coming?" she asked tentatively.

He moved suddenly toward the stairs and rested his hand on the railing next to hers, looking up at her, his eyes pleading.

"Lisbon—"

He looked down and frowned at where their hands nearly touched. What was he going to say? _I'm sorry? I'll never do it again? Can I please come back to the team?_ The last was really all he wanted, or all he was prepared to think about at the moment. But Lisbon's team didn't have Red John, and if she asked—which he knew she would—he would be compelled to tell her that case would have to be the deal maker. He couldn't lie to her, wouldn't lie—didn't think he had the stomach for it anymore.

"Can you ponder the secrets of the universe some other time? I really need you on this."

He looked up at her and caught the light of a smile in her eyes.

"You need me, Lisbon?"

"I'm probably in more than a little trouble over this, and if I don't have at least one person from your team in on the interrogation, Taggert will have my ass on a platter."

"So . . . this is me saving your ass?"

"No-o-o. This is me giving you a chance to do your job."

She turned to resume her walk up the stairs, and Jane swung around the post and bounded up the steps to her side, continuing the conversation as if she hadn't spoken.

"Because you know, I really don't mind saving your ass. That's why I followed you here."

"I didn't _need_ you to save me," she growled at him.

"As a matter of fact, I can't think of anyone whose ass I'd rather save."

"Jane." There was definitely a warning there, but of course he didn't take the hint.

"Maybe later you can tell me whose brilliant idea it was for you to be bait."

"And maybe later _you_ can tell _me_ what you were doing in my desk drawer. And you didn't wait for the team this time, _did_ you?"

"All part of saving . . ."

As their voices faded, Madeleine stepped into the light and looked up the stairs after them, shaking her head and wishing they would get a clue. If Lisbon didn't have a thing for Jane, she would eat her damn gun. And if Jane thought he could say the things _he'd_ just said. . . Well, she didn't know _what_ that man thought, but he'd better wise up and stop playing around. She frowned up at the single, bare light bulb. God, she missed this. But for now, she was missing her kids, and she needed to get out of town. She had done her part. The rest was up to them.


	14. Murky Waters

14. MURKY WATERS

Having received their orders and without more than an eyebrow raised in question among them, the SCU transported their suspect to the FBI. Lisbon called Eleanor to set things up, using a phone Jane had never seen before, and he realized it was a burn phone, completely untraceable. Lisbon had a surprising acumen for the clandestine. And that thought prompted him to think through a few of the other things he'd found in her desk. Patting himself on the back mentally for his judiciousness, he kept his thoughts to himself, determined to have it out with her later and perfectly willing to use any and all information he had to sway her to his way of thinking on the subject of his rejoining the team. But for now they had an uglier fish to fry.

They had ridden to the Federal building in one vehicle, Lisbon not wanting to draw attention with what may look like a caravan. And, of course, driving Jane's car to the FBI had been out of the question. A few minutes before they reached the complex, Eleanor called them back with instructions on which entrance to use. She met them at one of many service doors, and led them up a flight of stairs to an interrogation room, offering to watch the now semi-conscious Bertram and see to any medical needs while they discussed strategy in the viewing room.

Jane and Lisbon were engaging in a disagreement over which of them should take point when Lisbon glanced over Jane's shoulder into interrogation. Her eyes widened, and with a heated expletive she rushed from the room. Jane turned to look through the glass to see what had prompted such a reaction, and his heart sank as he watched Lisbon crash through the door just as Eleanor withdrew a now empty hypodermic needle from Bertram's neck. Lisbon had her against the wall in an instant.

"What did you do?" Lisbon growled at her as Jane slid into the room, shocked and unable to believe what he'd just seen happen. Eleanor wouldn't—it couldn't be what it looked like.

"She can't talk with your arm pressed against her throat like that."

Lisbon decreased the pressure slightly, and some of the red left Eleanor's face.

"What did you do?" Lisbon asked a bit more calmly but no less ferociously.

Eleanor managed a strangled cough before she rasped out, "Turn on the camera and start the interview. You don't have much time."

Lisbon looked at her questioningly, and Eleanor met her gaze without flinching. Both women relaxed their stance and smoothed their clothes before Lisbon turned to the glass and gave the signal to the agents she knew were watching from the other side before taking her place at the table across from Bertram. Trusting Lisbon's judgment, Jane slid into the chair next to her as Eleanor coughed once more and took a seat next to Red John's mole.

"Director Bertram." Lisbon smiled at him like he was lunch. "Gale."

What should be the first question you ask in this situation? Dozens were screaming their way through Jane's head. Lisbon decided to keep it simple.

"Do you know Red John?"

Bertram blinked his bleary eyes, and that mournful expression creased his features again.

"Red John?" he repeated, his voice frail and vulnerable.

"Yes, Gale. Do you know Red John?"

He nodded, his head bobbling. "Yes," he whispered.

"Who is Red John, Gale?"

He raised his eyes to hers suddenly, and a light of something—happiness, joy, pleasure—sparked in him for a second then died in a flood of sorrow so palpable she almost pitied him.

"Not the same. Not the same," he wagged his head dejectedly.

"_Who is Red John, Bertram?"_ It was all Jane could do to keep his seat and refrain from lunging across the table.

"Not John. Not John . . . James." Bertram harrumphed in scorn. "James the lesser."

He looked down at the table then, mumbling incoherently. Eleanor took his pulse and checked his eyes before looking at Lisbon then glancing pointedly at her watch. Taking that as a sign that there was little time left before he was rendered incapable of speaking coherently and realizing they wouldn't get anything usable from him on the subject of Red John, Lisbon pressed him on the matter of the second reason she had been intent on the capture of the serial killer's lackey.

"Gale," she spoke more softly now, "did you kill Manuel Montero?"

He nodded without looking up and mumbled, "Part of the plan."

"And Todd Johnson?"

Bertram jerked his eyes up to hers again, and they cleared momentarily.

"Bad business that. He needed to be put down."

"So you killed him?"

"Had to be done. Just crazy enough to talk, and too crazy to live."

"I need you to say it, Gale."

"I killed Todd Johnson. Set him on fire. Blaze of glory for a cop killer."

At least Bertram had never gone along with the idea of that. His eyes glazed over again, and his head sagged to his chest.

"Bertram, about Red John—," Jane attempted once more before Lisbon laid her hand on his arm, stilling him. Bertram was now repeating "James the lesser" over and over, shaking his head at the tabletop between them, lost to what was happening around him.

"That's all you'll get for now." Eleanor's voice sounded as full of galling disappointment as Lisbon and Jane both felt. The senior agent turned in her chair and drew her index finger across her throat, signaling that the recording equipment should be turned off now.

"What did you give him?" Jane asked quietly, appreciating what Eleanor had tried to do.

"Sodium amytal. Fewer detectable side effects. And on the interview tape it would just look like he was overcome by events, maybe going into shock. As it turns out, I think his mind is gone. Even if I gave him sodium pentothal and front-loaded it with barbiturates, I don't think you'd get anything more useful out of him. Not about Red John."

Eleanor stepped out into the hall and motioned to two FBI agents, ordering them to take Bertram to the infirmary then directing the SCU team to a conference room across the hall.

"James the lesser?" Lisbon was thinking on the paltry answers he had given.

"Biblical reference to one of the twelve apostles. There was James the brother of John and James the lesser . . . the other James, not so famous. I think what's more telling—if we only knew what he was saying—was his attitude."

"It was like he was in mourning or something." Van Pelt spoke up.

"You don't think Red John is dead, do you?" Rigsby sounded hopeful.

"He wasn't speaking about him in past tense." Jane had discounted that early on in Bertram's ramblings. The uneasy feeling he'd had earlier that there was much more going on than they realized resurfaced.

"But he _was_ in mourning." Eleanor could neither escape nor account for that fact.

"Obviously he has . . . very deep feelings for and about Red John," Lisbon swallowed her distaste, "and something has changed. Red John isn't communicating with him or is displeased with him. Maybe he's afraid because he's messed up and gotten caught. Maybe . . ." Her voice trailed off, her mind unable to come up with any more rational guesses as to Bertram's obvious frame of mind.

"Whatever's going on, we need to get back." Cho succinctly brought them all back to the reality of the moment. "LaRoche knows where we went, and there's going to be hell to pay when we get back and tell him Bertram's here. In a cell."

"Can't imagine Taggert's going to be too thrilled either." Jane almost wanted to laugh at how he knew his team leader would react.

"I'll talk to LaRoche, see if we can come up with a way of breaking it to Taggert. _Sheep dip_. The AG has to be informed, too."

"I'll take care of the AG," Eleanor offered. "He owes me a _lot_ of favors. I think I'll call them all in now."

Lisbon nodded her gratitude and turned to the rest of her team. "We'll head back to Bertram's for the other cars then back to the bureau. You three keep your heads down and Jane and I will take care of Taggert and LaRoche."

"Boss, you can't—"

"Those are my orders, Cho."

The two agents stood, facing off, Cho weighing whether he was agent or friend in this moment. He swallowed and his face cleared, devoid of emotion, and Lisbon, satisfied, turned away from him. He moved to follow her, pausing just long enough to shoot Jane a look loaded with dire warning and certain ultimatum.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

"I'm telling you, LaRoche, this is unacceptable. I won't stand by and let—"

"Agent Taggert, the evidence was strong, and the opportunity presented itself. Agent Lisbon couldn't be expected to sit back and wait for channels."

LaRoche was calm, composed, the very voice of reason. And the calmer he was, the angrier Taggert seemed to become. Jane was certain the SCU head knew exactly what he was doing as he continued speaking in that measured drone.

"Yes, she went about things in an unorthodox manner. Yes, it would have been more in keeping with protocol if she had informed you of her intentions, but she took the initiative in a very uncertain matter, not knowing who could be trusted—"

"Who could be _trusted_?" Taggert interjected, bristling with indignation.

"—and brought in a major player in the Red John case without endangering herself or anyone else. I understand your irritation—"

"LaRoche, I'm warning—"

"—but no regulations were broken, and again, with your consultant's help, we've gotten our first real break on this case since Red John's first known victim was killed thirteen years ago. Surely you can see the bigger picture here."

Lisbon sat on a chair in the corner, hands clasped in her lap, head down. Jane had never known her to look so meek, willing to sit and let the two men discuss her as if she weren't in the room.

"What I _see_, Agent LaRoche, is that you have a rogue, out-of-control agent who doesn't know how to do her job without proper supervision."

LaRoche's face went steel, and the quiet voice was near deadly.

"What I _have_, Agent Taggert, is a firm grasp of what makes a good agent, a good cop and a good investigator. The _last_ thing I have, Agent Taggert, the last thing I will _ever _have is a need to delineate that information or in any way answer to _you_. Now would be a good time for you to vacate my office and return to doing whatever you were doing when you learned the Serious Crimes Unit had brought in Red John's mole in the CBI."

Taggert wheeled on Lisbon, swung his gaze to Jane, glared back over his shoulder at LaRoche, then stormed out of the office in silent, impotent rage.

"Well, that was the most—"

"Mr. Jane, I suggest you return to your department. Now."

Disappointment enveloped him like a wet cloak.

"Do I have to, J.J.?"

LaRoche sighed heavily, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn't even going to broach the subject of Jane's brash and usually unwelcome over-familiarity.

"Jane. You are attached to the Serial Crimes Unit. You have been instrumental in bringing in a major player in the Red John case. Taggert needs to be able to see that in a positive light. You need to try and smooth this over on your end."

"I don't know if I can do that and be anywhere close to sincere."

At that point, a rumble sounded that seemed to be coming from LaRoche himself. His shoulders began to shake, and the quaking took over his whole body. When he raised his eyes to Jane's, they were damp with near tears of laughter.

"I'm not asking you to be sincere. I know better. Lie through your teeth if you have to, but just get him to calm down enough not to file anything formal."

Jane's grin spread ear to ear, and he pointed a finger at LaRoche. "Now _that_, I can do."

He turned and made for the door, a long absent spring in his step. At the threshold, he turned to look at the woman still sitting in the corner chair, her hands now gripping the seat on either side of her hips.

"Lisbon?"

She raised her head and met his gaze then swept her eyes to meet LaRoche's now serious expression. Her voice was small but calm.

"I don't think I'm done here yet."

A sense of foreboding swept over him at her words, and he hoped with everything in him that she was right.


	15. You Do Assist the Storm

**Some of you had questions about Eleanor drugging Bertram, and I wanted to clear up the confusion my foggy writing may have caused. She gave him sodium amytal, a drug sometimes used in interrogations by intelligence organizations (I actually got the information off of the CIA website! Should they be telling us these things?). There is no such thing as an actual "truth serum", a drug that literally makes the subject tell the truth. But there are several drugs and combinations of drugs that will break down the mental barriers that allow people to construct and tell lies. Sodium pentothal has been used for decades, most recently in conjunction with barbiturates. As Eleanor explained, sodium amytal has fewer side effects—mostly acute drowsiness—and she was desperate to get real information on Red John without it causing a hitch in the legalities later on (She is rather like Jane, after all, but more subtle, being a woman.). Others can cause psychosis, so they have to be handled by someone who knows what they're doing. And I in no way intended to imply that the FBI uses truth drugs. That was all Eleanor.**

15. YOU DO ASSIST THE STORM (from Shakespeare's "The Tempest; Act I, Scene 2)

As it turned out, Jane had to do very little schmoozing to get Taggert to calm down. The call from the AG commending him on his restraint and his foresight in sending his consultant and best interrogator to the scene, as well as his working in tandem with the FBI, went a long way toward taking the sting out of the whole incident. The Serial Crimes boss literally preened when he was ordered to do a follow-up interrogation of Bertram the next morning. He wasn't too happy about taking Jane along, but even Taggert knew better than to ignore a suggestion from the State Attorney General.

And so it was that Jane found himself once again in an FBI interrogation room with a near somnambulant Gale Bertram. The fact that the third person in the room wasn't Lisbon was only a small disappointment, considering the show to which he had just been privy.

Taggert asked his inane questions, and Bertram mumbled at the tabletop between them. Within fifteen minutes of cajoling, threatening and outright yelling, Taggert was a trembling, seething mass of anger, and Gale Bertram hadn't so much as hinted that he even knew someone else was in the room. Jane rose to follow when his boss ordered the recording equipment turned off and flung the door open with a shouted curse.

"Eh, Taggert? I want to talk to the guards about the security set-up . . . if that's all right with you, of course."

"Do whatever the hell you want. But if you're not in the car in five minutes . . ."

Taggert moved down the hall without a backward glance, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air. Jane waited for him to turn the corner before heading back into interrogation. He circled around to the opposite side of the table at which Bertram still sat, hunkered down in his chair, arms folded across his chest and hands tucked into his armpits. Jane was impressed. Bertram was a real prize—a fascinating example of the functioning psychotic. The lunatic that keeps his ravings to himself and carries on until circumstances converge to conspire against the façade of competent, even commanding sanity; who manages to luxuriate in mental delusion yet walk confidently through the reality around him. The perfect right-hand man for a brutal, charismatic killer. Tilting his head back and forth, studying the man for a few seconds, Jane's features finally relaxed into a predatory grin, and he leaned across the table, his face inches from that of Red John's second.

"I know you're in there."

He held that grin, that intrusive closeness . . . and waited. Finally, Bertram's eyes slid sideways to meet Jane's, and he twisted his neck in an almost inhuman way so that he was looking at him eye to eye and grinned back.

"There's something I've been dying to know, Gale."

Bertram's grin turned feral, and he drew away with a look of disgust, tired of the same questions being asked of him over and over. Jane didn't let that deter him.

"Why Andre Morgan? Surely you didn't mean to have someone that smart on the team."

Bertram's expression froze before he relaxed again, seemingly pleased and intrigued with the question. He glanced at the camera, noting the red light was off before he spoke.

"He was a last minute pick. It was supposed to be O'Neill in Vice, but he gave notice. Said he was moving to Arizona. Morgan was new, different. Knew he would never fit."

"And the others?"

Bertram rumbled with a scornful chuckle.

"You mean the three stooges? Giles has been stumbling around the bureau since he started twenty years ago. And Weis—well, . . . you saw."

"What about Taggert?"

The former CBI Director looked around the room as if there might still be someone hidden there listening to their conversation before leaning to Jane and whispering conspiratorially, "Couldn't find his ass if he sat on his hands."

He pulled back then and winked at the shared confidence. Jane had to laugh at his very apt description. They could almost be neighbors trading gossip over the fence. But Bertram suddenly transformed, his manner all somber.

"He won't like it, you know. Won't like what Lisbon's done, how close she got."

He paused, seriously considering something. Jane didn't try to engage him in conversation. He just let it play out.

"I like Lisbon," Bertram said with that same grave tone before he lifted his eyes to Jane's once more and smirked. "Irritating as hell, but she's got balls."

Jane had to chuckle at that. "She certainly does."

Bertram nodded to confirm his agreement. Jane hoped he could keep to this train of thought.

"You think he'll come after her."

Bertram narrowed his eyes as if he were really considering the possibility.

"Once, maybe . . . but not . . . I don't know."

He shook his head as if he were trying to clear it. "What'd that shrink bitch give me anyway?"

"Sodium amytal. Don't think it worked too well, though."

"Oh, it worked. It worked very well."

He shook his head again and frowned. "He won't like it . . ."

Bertram suddenly inhaled deeply through his nose and opened his mouth to release the breath with a great whoosh before he planted his palms on the table, leaned back and bellowed, "I'm done in here!"

A uniformed guard came into the room and helped the prisoner to his feet, and Jane straightened as Bertram dragged past him, a tangle of chains securing his wrists and connecting them to manacles around his ankles. At the last moment, he stopped, stilled in contemplation. Leaning to Jane's ear, he whispered a few words, winked at him one more time then left the room to head to his cell. Jane stood for only a moment pondering what Bertram had said before he hurried to the parking lot where Taggert already had the engine running. They sat in silence during the short drive, and when they arrived back at the CBI, Jane went straight to Lisbon's office only to find that she had been suspended. Two weeks. No badge. No gun.

Jane tried several times to reach her that day, but all of his calls went to voice mail. He left no message, not knowing exactly what he wanted to say. A suspension was by no means the same as termination, but he knew two weeks of it was a very serious matter to Lisbon. Jane decided he would wait her out, give her some time and try to reach her again. He knew showing up at her apartment was out of the question.

The next morning, Gail Bertram was found dead in his cell. He had swallowed his tongue.

And that night . . . Red John killed again.

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Red John's usual style was to stun his victim then make a series of quick cuts to start the bleed and further immobilize her. He would follow with a series of groupings of deeper, clean, sharp cuts that bespoke a well-honed knife on arms, legs and torso, allowing them to slowly bleed out, unable to even writhe as they suffered the torment of fear and pain before he delivered the killing assault—a slice across the throat. The face was always untouched, eyes wide and startled, skin near pristine in death. Shannon Armitage's face was so disfigured that both DNA and dental records were required to positively identify her. And her toenails were painted in her blood.

Weis was out front vomiting in the bushes again, and Jane was nearly ready to join him. Red John had been known to break pattern more than once, but this . . .

Bertram had been right. Red John was angry. And he had taken out his anger on Shannon Armitage. Jane's thoughts went immediately to Lisbon. He tried to call her again and this time left a message, hoping he didn't sound too pathetic. The crime scene was processed and, as usual, the forensic techs gave little hope of finding anything useful. The Serial Crimes team rode back to the bureau in defeated silence.

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She was checking her messages regularly, calling Cho back to answer questions or get more information, erasing his voicemails as she dealt with each issue. But one message she couldn't bring herself to delete. She'd seen his name on her caller ID, not just that time but the dozen or so others he'd tried to reach her.

With everything he had done and everything that had passed between them, she couldn't ignore the fact that he had come, so he thought, to rescue her. In spite of everything she had said and done, in spite of how she had hurt him and—she was sure he felt—abandoned him, when he thought she was in danger, he had come for her. Not for Red John or his accomplice, not for a new lead, not for another piece of any puzzle, but for _her_. And when the voicemail icon popped up, she hadn't been able to resist listening to it immediately, then listening to it twice more before she leaned back on the couch and sipped her tea.

"_Sorry about your suspension . . . Ironic, huh? . . . Got a little more out of Bertram. He thinks Red John will be angry . . . Lisbon . . . I just wanted to make sure . . . If you . . . " _A deep breath, exhaled and expelled_. "Be safe . . . __please__."_

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Serial Crimes was wading through notes from questioning the victim's neighbors and waiting for what reports they might get from the morgue and forensics. The slow drabble of information didn't look promising, and Jane finally told his boss he was needed for an appointment at the FBI. Taggert looked relieved to wave him away.

Jane didn't need to talk, didn't require a safe place to vent. He was worried about Lisbon, and the case was getting to him and he just needed to be somewhere where he didn't feel like he was going crazy with someone who wasn't trying to drive him there.

Eleanor offered a curt "That would be fine" in answer to his request to see her, and he wondered if he'd done something to offend her. The minute he walked into her office, he understood why she had sounded so distant and noncommittal on the phone. If Lisbon had known what was up, she would've surely flown the coop.

But caught as she was, sitting there on Eleanor's couch, drinking Masala chai, her only course of action was to purse her lips in accusation at the older woman and sigh in resignation as Jane took Eleanor's place across from her after the psychiatrist stood and excused herself from the room.

Not knowing where to start, whether to tell her how glad he was to see her or berate her for worrying him, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"I need to tell you what Bertram said to me the morning before he died."

Lisbon looked at him, startled by his blatant awkwardness then dropped her head as she realized what he'd said.

"He recited two stanzas from—"

"Don't." She looked back up at him, and he stammered to a halt in confusion.

"That's something you should tell your boss. Taggert's team has the Red John case, and you're on his team."

"But . . . I don't want to be on Taggert's team. I don't like it. I don't like _him_."

"Doesn't matter. That's your team . . . And you don't really want to leave it."

He shook his head at her helplessly, trying to understand what she was saying and what she meant by it. She smiled at him, sad and composed.

"I know you want to come back. I know you miss us. I know you'd rather work with us . . ." She ducked her head. "I know you even care about us. But we don't have Red John, and that's the deciding factor, isn't it? Red John is _always the deciding factor_."

She could almost believe it didn't hurt anymore to think or say it. And he could almost believe it would be possible to deny. But he knew better. He had thought the same thing just two days ago when he had been on the very verge of begging her to take him back but for that one point.

"You could take the case back."

She pressed her lips together, but that sad smile never left her eyes.

"It doesn't work like that. The bureau doesn't play musical chairs with murder cases."

He shook his head and opened his mouth, an argument ready, but the sudden tears in her eyes silenced him, and he frowned at her in confusion when she gathered both of his hands in hers.

"I will always be your friend," she whispered with all the sincerity she could muster. "I will always be here for you, whatever you need."

She looked down at his hands and stroked them with her thumbs before she gave them a gentle squeeze, offered him one last watery smile and quietly stood and left the room.

Eleanor reentered the office and sat across from him in the place Lisbon had just vacated and watched his woebegone face, still turned, looking at the door. She picked up one of his hands in hers and rubbed it briskly, bringing his attention to her.

"What do I do now?"

She smiled at him brightly. _What a very promising question._

"Decide what you want. And then do something about it."

She patted his hand heartily. "I'll make some more tea."


	16. St Elmo's Fire

**Again, I want to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, favorite-ed and alerted. There are three more chapters after today's. Thanks for sticking with me. And to Amy-I loved "Wire in the Blood". I found it about a year ago and watched it on a well-known on-line movie rental site, outright addicted it was so compelling. So, while I believe your praise to be too high, thank you so much.**

16. ST. ELMO'S FIRE

It hadn't taken him long to decide what he wanted, and having talked a few things through with Eleanor, Jane returned to the CBI and headed for LaRoche's office. He recounted his final conversation with Bertram, and the SCU boss agreed that Lisbon's safety may well be in jeopardy. Deciding the best place for her was the bureau, LaRoche called her to inform her of her reinstatement, effective immediately.

Jane had much more to make right, so he told LaRoche everything, from his reason for joining the CBI, which of course was always a given, to details of his encounters with Red John and Todd Johnson to his aiding Madeleine in her escape. He left out his specific intentions for the serial killer and a few other secrets of his past, which he had only shared with Lisbon and reserved for her.

LaRoche rubbed his great bear paw heavily down his face to grasp his chin as he stared down at his desktop for a moment before dropping both hands into his lap and allowing his shoulders to slump.

"You've put me in a very difficult position, Mr. Jane. Your reasons for joining the bureau have never been in question, though I doubt you've ever been completely forthcoming on the matter—" he sighed deeply, "—with anyone but Agent Lisbon. And I doubt she would have given you away unless she felt you were a true danger to yourself or others. You've withheld evidence in the Red John investigation and the investigation into Todd Johnson's killing, and you aided and abetted the escape of a suspected murderer."

Jane held his tongue offering no excuses or defense, hoping LaRoche would realize what it was costing him to come clean and leave the ball entirely in his court.

"But . . . _But_ . . . the Red John evidence was probably no real evidence at all. And, while knowing that Todd Johnson was part of Red John's circle would have kept us from wasting our time investigating his murder as a possible revenge killing—" at this he looked at Jane pointedly, "—knowledge of the connection wouldn't have brought us nearer to a conclusion in either case. And, in light of Bertram's confession, I must assume that Madeleine Hightower is innocent. You have committed certain wrongs, _egregious_ wrongs that have had no legal or professional ill effects, and I'm left with the unpleasant and undesirable dilemma of whether to charge you and see you punished for the sake of principle alone."

LaRoche clasped his hands on his desktop and looked to the side for a moment before turning back to Jane with a resigned, very sheepish but humorless smile.

"No one in authority likes to look small, Mr. Jane."

Relief swept over him at the realization of what LaRoche was saying, what he was grudgingly offering. But in the event this was too good to be true, he sought clarification.

"So . . . no harm, no foul?" He asked hopefully.

LaRoche looked at him levelly, considering his reply before answering. "You are indeed a blessed man, Mr. Jane. I will never offer such mercy again. Just this once."

Jane was struck by the words. He hoped this could, at least in part, make up for his foolishness of the past.

"There's one more thing, J.J." He caught the passing frown and vowed to do better in the future, though he was loathe to ask the man outright what he preferred he call him.

"Bertram said something to me just before he left the room after our last conversation. '_Why should joys be sweet / Used with deceit, / Nor with sorrows meet? / But an honest joy / Does itself destroy / For a harlot coy.'"_

"Blake again?" LaRoche asked.

"From 'Silent, Silent Night'. He talked about Red John as if he was mourning him, grieving his loss. But he didn't refer to him in past tense, and I think Shannon Armitage's death is evidence enough that Red John isn't dead."

"Have you told Lisbon about this?"

"She wouldn't hear of it. Said I needed to tell Taggert."

"And you haven't?"

It was Jane's turn to look sheepish.

"This complete honesty thing is a little new to me," he confessed.

LaRoche shifted his eyes sideways and nodded distractedly, "Taggert probably wouldn't see any meaning in it."

Jane resisted the urge to comment on Taggert's ability to see anything, including his hand in front of his face, and LaRoche looked backed at him in understanding.

"Taggert wouldn't have been my pick to lead a serial crimes team. In fact, I didn't support forming the team in the first place. While not much headway has been made in the Red John case, I don't think anyone here is better qualified to handle it than Agent Lisbon's unit."

"Good to hear it . . . so, I should tell Taggert?"

"Let me think on it a while, see what I can make of it, and you do the same."

"I'll call you if anything comes to mind."

LaRoche pulled a notepad from a side desk drawer and began writing, and Jane took that as his dismissal. On the way downstairs, he leaned into the SCU bullpen and begged the promise of a text from Grace when Lisbon arrived, which was gladly given. He stopped in downstairs to check in with his unit before heading up to the attic, eager to escape the atmosphere of Serial Crimes, now poisoned by Taggert's suspicion and resentment.

Much later, Jane would reflect on the paradox that was his opinion on coincidence. He professed its non-existence in pursuit of solving a case but believed in it whole-heartedly in the making and unfolding of the universe and its happenings. He would need to adjust his thinking.

Over the next two hours, three astounding things happened, which gave way to a fourth, then many more, and all came to Jane's knowledge by way of two text messages.

Approximately one hour after stepping foot in his aerie, Jane learned from Grace—to his utter relief—that Lisbon was back. During that time, J.J. LaRoche had received a call from a very harried AG who was in need of an interim Director of the now headless CBI. Approximately sixty minutes after receiving Grace's message, Andre Morgan texted Jane that he needed to get down to Serial Crimes now.

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When she arrived at the building, Lisbon had stepped into the bullpen to let them know she was back and then promptly headed up to thank LaRoche for rescinding her suspension. LaRoche, ever an honest man, gave credit where credit was due informing her she owed her speedy return to Jane before giving her a detailed account of his conversation with the consultant. While she was not naïve enough to hope that Jane's seeming turnabout held significant meaning, she did feel even more light-hearted as she made to leave LaRoche's office than she did upon entering. It was at that moment that Cho apologized for interrupting to tell Lisbon she had a call from the local sheriff down in La Puenta near San Angelo Park, and he refused to speak with anyone but her.

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Obeying Andre's summons out of curiosity more than anything else, Jane hurried down to Serial Crimes to hear Taggert talking on his phone so loudly he could be heard through the glass. Jane looked to Morgan, his eyebrows raised in question.

"He's on de phone wit'chur boss. Somethin' 'bout an ol' fahrm down 'roun' San Angelo."

Taggert ended the call and slammed the receiver back into its cradle even as Jane looked toward him, strongly suspecting the location of the farm in question and hopeful that for once, good sense and discernment would win out. Taggert caught his gaze and scowled at him. Jane knew better than to attempt it, but he couldn't let it go, had to press the subject and make the unit boss see reason. That attempt quickly disintegrated into a shouting match, ending when LaRoche himself wrenched the glass office door open causing Taggert to spin around to face him open mouthed in indignation at his audacity. As always, LaRoche was unflinchingly, infuriatingly calm.

"Agent Taggert, as acting Director of the CBI, I thought it my duty to personally inform you that your unit is off the Red John case. Furthermore, I will be evaluating the effectiveness of this unit for the purpose of deciding if its continued existence is of any benefit to the bureau. I should warn you that it is my immediate opinion that it holds none."

Jane heard the words, but all that registered was that Lisbon and the SCU must have the case now, and that meant they would be heading down to San Angelo. Sensing his nervous eagerness, LaRoche turned to address him.

"They're leaving soon, probably in the parking lot now. You'd better hurry if you want to catch them, but the decision is up to her."

The last words were called after him as Jane made for the elevators. They had just finished packing the SUV and were making ready to head out, Van Pelt and Rigsby already in back. Lisbon was moving toward the driver's side and Cho had just opened the front passenger side door. Both agents noticed his approach at the same time and all three froze, Jane's gaze holding Lisbon's across the vehicle's hood. He didn't dare voice the request, waiting for her to make the offer. She regarded him for only a moment, her eyes wary. When she realized how he must have learned where they were headed, her gaze cleared, and she spoke with commanding certainty.

"From now on there have to be boundaries. I need to know that you can do your work and be effective without creating a mess that I have to clean up."

She had spoken those same words to him on a side street outside a victim's home in Bayshore over a year previous. Virgil had taken the Red John case from them and handed it over to Bosco, and Jane had let them know without that case, working at the CBI wasn't worth his time. With fresh strawberries as a peace offering, he had asked her to take him back, not because the job was worthwhile but because he had nothing else to do. When she had stated her conditions, her eyes pleading for his compliance, he had offered her a glib promise of "No mess, I swear." Not really a promise since he never meant it. This time he knew better.

"I promise I'll try my best."

Without taking her eyes from his, she let memories of the past few weeks run through her mind—Jane's open answers to Eleanor when he knew the questions had come from her, his concern for her when he had thought her in danger, the talk with LaRoche, the evening he had come to the bullpen to check on her (At that her breathing hitched and she felt the beginning of a light blush bloom.). Then there were memories of the years, moments he had helped her, looked out for her in his stupid and stubborn way. He watched as her thoughts flitted through her eyes, purposely trying _not_ to read her (though he did wonder at that blush), watching and waiting for her to decide his fate.

And then she smiled at him . . . relieved and welcoming.

"Well," she said teasingly, "I guess I can't ask for more than that."

She opened the driver's side door and hoisted herself into the seat as Cho grinned at him and moved to take a seat in the back. When he could breathe again, Jane took shotgun heeding Lisbon's "Do up your seatbelt", and the team headed south. On the way down, she explained that the sheriff in La Puente had found something on a farm at 7645 Sparrow Peak Drive but wouldn't say exactly what, only that the unit needed to come down and see—and hopefully take charge of the situation—for themselves. Happy to report to his new-old boss, Jane recounted his last conversation with Bertram, including the Blake quotation, which none of the five could decipher.

It had been a few years since the death of Dumar Hardy, Red John's pawn and cohort. Dumar was actually the son of Orville Tanner, the serial killer's former accomplice, and had been given a kidnapped girl—Maya Plaskett—as a reward for his faithfulness. He had lured Jane to his family farm on Sparrow Peak, not realizing Jane and Lisbon had counted on his doing so in hopes of being led to Red John. Lisbon had entered the picture too early, worried for Jane's safety, saving his life and arresting Dumar but allowing the primary quarry to escape. While in custody, Hardy had managed to take a deputy's gun and turn on Lisbon, only to be shot dead by Jane. The farm had sat idle since then. Neither family nor friends had claimed it, and Hardy had left no will, leaving it in testate after his death.

Some months ago, the area had gone into a drought that had lasted until the present time, the worst for that rural area in eighty years. There was a spring-fed stream on the property that still managed to produce a trickle of water, and hunters in the area knew there was wild game on the place. Early that morning, one of them—or rather his dog—found something he hadn't banked on.

The mounding of the shallow grave hadn't settled due to the dryness of the earth. The hound had sniffed it out, and being a man of crude habits and rough ways, the hunter had understood the significance of his find. Wild animals didn't bury their kills and neither did honest, hungry men. There was only one explanation for what lay hidden beneath the powdery earth.

The sheriff didn't do any forensic testing or internet searches. He didn't even look in the large, semi-decayed manila envelope tucked into the body bag with the skeleton. What was left of a corpse had been found on Dumar Hardy's property, and the county lawman didn't want anything to do with it.

When they reached the scene, Lisbon—properly gloved and without compunction—carefully tugged the documents from the nearly crumbling envelope and stared at them, swallowing hard before she spoke.

"It's the autopsy results for Carter Peak."

Cho was the first to respond. "Carter Peak? You mean—"

"Red John's fourth victim." Jane cut in.

Lisbon's heart sank. She could already hear the note of gruesome elation that bordered on giddiness in his voice. She hated the way he crowed over any discovery related to Red John. It was ghoulish and usually dangerous. She wanted to shut out his voice until the roaring in her head stopped.

"This is what Bosco was killed for. He found Red John's mistake, and Red John sent Rebecca to recover the evidence before we could get to it. She must have given him everthing—the body and the forensics report—before she went back to . . ."

His voice trailed off when he noticed Lisbon's tense body language and thought at first that it must have been due to his stupidly callous mention of Sam Bosco. He hadn't meant to be so thoughtless, but he couldn't contain his excitement at the find. Apparently, Red John, or one of his dupes, had taken the body and paperwork to Hardy's place and buried it, not accounting for the chances of the combination of a year-long drought and a zealous hound.

DNA had been found on what was left of the body, scrapings of his attacker's skin under Carter Peak's fingernails. The full report and panel were part of the paperwork Bosco and three others had died for. It was decided, and seconded by LaRoche via phone, that the remains and reports be taken to the FBI for verification and any further testing as they still could not be certain whether the CBI was completely secure.

On the ride back, as the five teammates sat in contemplative silence, Jane noticed Lisbon's periodically white-knuckle tightening on the steering wheel. Suddenly, it dawned on him that the reason for her tension at the scene had actually had very little to do with his mention of Bosco. He cursed inwardly when he remembered his reaction to the discovery of the skeleton's identity, but old habits die hard, and all he could do now was try to set her mind at ease.

"This is good. We have something real here."

"Yes, Jane." Her voice was a study in calm.

"Lisbon." He turned in the seat to face her squarely. "Thank you for letting me come back. I feel like I'm where I belong."

She thought about that a moment then took hold of the olive branch.

"I guess you'll always belong here."

He watched her, relieved to see the furrow in her brow smooth and her grip on the steering wheel relax. Then, his gaze merely rested on her, wondering if she meant he belonged on this team, in this seat or by her side. He turned and settled in for the long drive back, satisfied with any and every possibility.


	17. Hell Is Empty

17. HELL IS EMPTY (and all the devils are here. From Shakespeare's "The Tempest; Act I, Scene 2)

The DNA belonged to John James Foley, who was, ironically, a decorated policeman originally from Oakland PD who, in spite of his high IQ and record test scores, refused to exchange the uniform for the detective's plain clothes. He was partnered at the beginning of his law enforcement career with Gale Bertram, an older, more experienced patrol cop. The two were close, as testified to by former colleagues, spending much of their off-duty time together, gravitating to one another as the damaged often do. Foley had left the OPD in 1997 to work for a string of private security companies and had lived with his mother until she died in 2004 of alcoholism. Disturbingly, the DNA testing had revealed that Foley's mother was also his sister. The final, confusing twist was that John James Foley had died in an automobile accident on I-5 just west of Fresno just a few years previous. Credit card records indicated that he had bought gas in La Puente that same morning. The significance of the date escaped no one. As Bosco had lain on his death bed telling Jane in confidence to kill Red John rather than arrest him, the man himself had laid dead on the side of the highway, victim of a distracted driver in a head-on collision.

So who had been killing since then? Who had taken and broken Kristina Frye? And who had Bertram died grudgingly wanting to protect for the sake of his beloved friend and fallen partner? For whom would he consider himself so indebted, in spite of what he had to have considered their obvious shortcomings?

Eleanor was the first to hit on the possibility and suggested the tech run the DNA through the system for near matches within the 20th percentile of individuals living in the state of California. The computer came up with twelve possibilities, but as the paper streamed out of the printer, Jane and Lisbon's eyes caught on the fourth name down.

The match was close enough to indicate sibling relationship. Derrick James Foley, the CBI's fingerprint analyst.

"He identified Madeleine's fingerprints in the Montero case." Lisbon was stunned in disbelief in spite of being able to see the evidence for herself. "He insisted on giving the report to me instead of LaRoche or Bertram, wanted me to inform the briefing."

She called LaRoche and as concisely as possible told him the particulars. He ordered her to remain at the FBI until he could have the CBI building searched. Minutes later, on his return call, LaRoche informed her that no sign of Foley had been found in a sweep of the building, though he had reported in that day. A BOLO had been issued, and the team was to return to the CBI immediately. Lisbon repeated the information to the others as they headed for the front doors.

"We'll go through security and traffic cameras around the city, use facial recognition and call you if we get something," Eleanor assured Lisbon before she even had time to think of how the FBI could help. "I'm sure the director will be glad to offer manpower as well. He owes—"

"Owes you a favor." Jane arched an eyebrow at her. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

She pursed her lips back at him as she opened the door and waved them out of the building, her cell phone already to her ear.

On the way back, Lisbon called LaRoche with an amended plan.

"Sir, I'd like to head to Derrick Foley's apartment. Some of the team will be up shortly to check on things from there . . . Yes, sir. I will."

She hung up and issued orders, turning first to Cho.

"We'll take two cars. Van Pelt, you and Rigsby stay here and comb through everything you can find on Foley and his family- former addresses, friends, old haunts, internet accounts. And have tech go through his computer in the lab."

They voiced their compliance as she wheeled into a parking space, her "Jane, you're with me" the last words before everyone moved to action.

The apartment was a complete blank, Spartan in its contents—just a few pairs of old jeans, ironed and hanging in the closet, a pair of old black shoes and barely a weeks' worth of clothes in the drawers. The only sign that Foley did not mean to return was the abandoned laptop power cord.

When they returned to the bullpen, Van Pelt and Rigsby had only been able to gather scant information on Foley himself. He had one credit card, used only for mundane purchases since he'd acquired it two years previously. There was no record of friends, entertainment purchases of any kind (with the exception of cable television), no evidence that Foley had any life at all outside the CBI.

But Eleanor had called, and further investigation into the DNA samples provided by Derrick Foley when he hired on with the bureau revealed that he and John James Foley had been more than brothers. They were father and son and shared the same mother. Working with that information, Eleanor had delved into Derrick Foley's family's past.

There was no information on Corinne Foley's parents other than her mother had passed away when she was a small child, and her father had died of alcohol-related cirrhosis of the liver three years after bringing her to California in 1965. She was fifteen when they made their home in the small town of Emryville. John James was two. Derrick James Foley was born fourteen years later.

Eleanor explained that their shame and isolation would have fostered an unhealthy reliance on past behaviors, Corinne abusing as she had been abused. It would also account for the inability of the men to have healthy relationships outside their home and for the closeness between the two as well as Derrick's need to carry on the killings as if John James were still alive, calling the victims "wives", giving the murders a psycho-sexual component that played out in the violence of the killings.

"The 'harlot coy'?" Cho queried, looking up from his desk.

"A cheap imitation," Jane answered. Just as Blake had penned it, Bertram's sweet joy, used in deceit and murder, had met with sorrow in the death of the magnetic John James Foley and been destroyed when he had seconded himself to the younger brother whom he saw as the lesser, unworthy stand-in.

As the others continued talking through the information, Jane watched Lisbon leave the bullpen wordlessly and walk to her office to slump in her chair, elbows on desk, face dropped into her hands. Not knowing what else to do with himself, he followed her and sagged into the chair across from her. The nonsensical thought of missing the couch passed briefly through his mind before he took on the task of wading through what they had just learned.

"She said it would account for their closeness, for 'James the lesser's' need to carry on his father's . . . brother's . . . mission?" Jane finished questioningly for lack of a better word for how Derrick Foley must have seen his part in the distorted scheme of things as he knew them. "It would also account for the first Red John's reaction to what I said about him." Contemplating events of the past in the context of what they had learned, Jane was able to comprehend it hadn't been so much that he had mentioned Red John himself. It was that he had referred to the relationship with his mother. And Derrick, the lesser James, had been punishing him for hurting his brother since the man's death.

He realized Lisbon hadn't moved, hadn't lifted her head since she had taken her seat. When she didn't look up or respond to what he'd said, he grew concerned, hoping what they'd discovered hadn't stirred up something from her own past.

"Lisbon?" His voice was unsure, and when she looked up at him, he was surprised to see concern swimming in her tear-filled eyes.

"Are you all right?" she asked. She was worried for _him_? The confusion must have shown on his face, and her explanation came out in a pained whisper.

"Jane, we've just learned that the man who killed your family over eight years ago, the man you've been _hunting_ for over seven years is dead. That the man we're looking for now is only a shadow of him."

She looked as if she would say more, but sat gaping at him, not knowing what other words she could possibly have to offer. He was certain he would feel the slam of realization eventually, but there were other considerations now.

"Lisbon, I know I will undoubtedly have to deal with that later, but for now, Red John—_this_ Red John is out there, and we have a chance, a _better than good chance_ of stopping him. I can focus on that for now. . . I won't let you down."

She smiled that watery smile again, and he nearly melted in the chair. At that moment, LaRoche pulled the door open, leaned across the threshold and surveyed the two of them before he spoke.

"FBI caught Foley on cameras heading toward the docks. They're joining with us and Sac PD for a sweep. I assume you'll want your team to take point?"

"Yes . . . thank you, sir," she managed to stammer out, raising both hands to her face to flick awkwardly at her tears.

The team was already up and moving, and she and Jane stepped out to join them as they headed for the elevators. Van Pelt and Rigsby checked their weapons, and Lisbon noticed Cho was holding a Kevlar vest. They only carried four in the SUV. She glanced uneasily at Jane walking beside her. His head was bowed, but she didn't miss the bright gleam in his eye. She groaned inwardly, knowing there was no way he'd stay in the car this time. Not sure if she even had the right to order him to do so, she decided to keep to the matter at hand.

"The docks?" she queried as the doors opened to the first floor.

"Probably to catch a barge or boat. Lots of shipping by truck, too," Cho responded, having heard LaRoche's information.

"He'd be able to get away undetected, to another state, maybe even out of the country," Jane picked up on Cho's thread of logic.

A security guard had seen a man matching Foley's description enter one of the empty, long idle warehouses. The FBI was there before them, and back-up from SPD arrived as Lisbon was outlining the plan for entering. Reluctant to break with protocol and wanting to get everything right for the sake of the justice system's blessing, she chafed at the idea of waiting for a warrant before they could enter.

On the drive over, she had felt her blood rise and her heart begin to race and had known by the time they got to the docks her senses would be heightened—her hearing sharper, her eyes taking in everything around her, her very skin tingling with every stir of breeze. She had also felt Jane watching her and had wondered if he was already formulating a plan to shed them all and get to Red John first. For the last few minutes she had been caught up in playing her role. Too late, she realized Jane was nowhere to be seen.

She exploded quietly in searing expletives, angry but not surprised. At least there was one positive. A member of the CBI was inside the premises in imminent danger, and that was cause to enter.

Fearing too many weapons in the confined space and not knowing in what situation she would find Jane, she ordered the back-up units to stand down, only herself and her team entering the building. As the four agents moved in, guns raised and ready, they followed footprints left in the floor's dust to a dark space barely illuminated by sunshine falling through a filthy skylight. It was once a room, surrounded by three glass walls and one solid and had served as an office and break room at the hub of the warehouse. The glass walls had been broken out long ago, only their frames and the fourth solid wall left standing.

In spite of what she had told him once about her confidence that when they caught Red John he would do the right thing, Lisbon had wondered in the past if Jane kept some kind of weapon hidden away close at hand in the event that they should come upon the serial killer. While she had hoped it wasn't true, when they rounded the corner and saw that Jane was unarmed, she could taste the regret that she hadn't at least given his gun back to him. Foley's back was to the free-standing wall, his extended hand holding the knife Lisbon recognized even at a distance as matching the description of the weapon used in every Red John murder, an heirloom passed from father-brother to brother-son. He motioned it threateningly toward Jane, both men lost in quiet, tense conversation. Their arrival startled Foley, and he transferred the knife to his other hand, reaching behind his back to pull a .38 he'd tucked into his jeans waist.

Jane's back was to them, and even after Lisbon shouted her warning to Foley to drop his weapons, he wouldn't move. She realized with a sinking heart that he was trying to shield them against Foley's mad intentions.

He had told her many times over the years in different ways that he would always save her, and she had brushed his words off as near meaningless given his quest to hunt and kill Red John, ignoring the stab of hurt that he would promise her anything in terms of always and ever. Yet, a handful of years ago outside of Dumar Hardy's farmhouse, he had been willing to kill to save her, casting aside the first real link, the first real hope they'd ever had of catching the serial killer. More recently, she had berated him for distancing himself, cutting himself off, tantamount to abandoning them, his family. And now here he was, ready to die to save them all.

_If he would just step out of the way_, she thought frantically. She didn't think she could bear living with one more regret, one more "if only".

But Jane was too intent on keeping as much of the killer's attention—and aim—on himself. She couldn't hear what he was saying, could only hear the low and guttural rumblings of it, but Foley's response was vicious and murderous. Lisbon tried once more to intervene, shouting an order at Jane to get out of the way, but still he refused to budge.

Lisbon caught the movement out of the corner of her eye. Cho's gun seemed to waver, but when the report sounded, she realized he had only slightly lowered his weapon to take aim. Comprehension dawned, and she looked on with horror as blood mist filled the air around Jane's lower extremities before he collapsed with a howl. Cho had blasted through his right knee cap from behind, taking him out of the equation. Lisbon fired first at the now exposed target and the others followed suit, all four of them emptying their full clips into Foley as he somehow remained upright and moving in gruesome slow motion toward Jane where he had fallen, the killer's body shuddering from the multiple impacts. With one last effort, Red John convulsed and lurched toward where Jane lay on the floor, swinging his knife in a wide, vain arc, only to fall dead a bare foot from the consultant's left side.

In the next instant, Lisbon was at Jane's right, crying out his name, begging for answer, her hands fluttering over him as she tried to ascertain his condition. She finally raised his head and cradled it in the crook of her elbow, crooning to him. _You'll be all right, you're going to be okay_. Something slipped around his leg and tightened, and he heard Cho's voice, "_Hold on, Jane, just hold on."_

Jane turned to look down at Derrick Foley's face, glazed maddened eyes turned toward him, still filled with hatred even in death. Something dark and galling overwhelmed him, and he reached down for the dead man's shoulder and took hold of it in a crushing grasp and cursed, dark and vile at this only piece left of the man who had taken his everything. He was using up valuable strength to shake the dead body, and Rigsby knelt at their heads, trying to pry his hand away.

The back-up units were on the scene now, and over fifty federal and local cops silently entered the room taking in the sight. The Serious Crimes Unit had brought down, as far as they knew, the most notorious serial killer in the history of California, the smell of gunfire still heavy in the air.

The sudden eruption of sound was deafening. Warrior-like calls of triumph mixed with applause and shouts of commendation. Jane heard the cacophony of noise as if from a great distance. Lisbon's pleadings, too, eventually receded into the fog. Wearied from his rage, his hand dropped limply to the floor. Shock and blood loss enshrouded him, and he sank into the welcoming deep.


	18. Safe Harbor

18. SAFE HARBOR

It had been nearly two months since Red John's death at the Sacramento River docks. The media coverage had finally died down and congratulations had ceased coming in. They had all attended numerous press conferences and ceremonies where their abilities and courage had been applauded and awarded, and things were finally getting back to almost normal.

Cho looked up from the book he was reading to where his boss sat on the brown leather couch, on the end nearest his desk. She had taken to sitting there at times throughout the day, reading through files, making notes, even taking calls on her cell and sometimes borrowing his desk phone. He liked her sitting there, liked them all being together. Well . . . almost all of them.

His eyes traveled over her from her hair caught up at her crown, some of the curled strands escaping, down over the pink oxford shirt tucked into the charcoal gray pencil skirt to the black high-heeled pumps she wore. She looked relaxed . . . and pretty. He ducked his head and went back to reading his book before she could look up and catch the little smile that dimpled one cheek.

A few minutes later, she closed the folder she'd been looking through and inhaled deeply.

"Well, I'm going to lunch."

She stood and stretched, looking around the room at her team.

"It's a beautiful day. You should all go to lunch. Somewhere where you can sit outside."

Van Pelt looked up at her surprised. "What about incoming calls?"

"They can pick them up downstairs. Or you can have them forwarded to your phone if you want."

The red head shrugged in acquiescence and looked around at her teammates, and the three reached a silent agreement. Lisbon scooped up her bag from where it sat on the floor by her feet and headed toward the door, singing back over her shoulder.

"Back in an hour!"

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Virgil had been watching for her, and when he stood at her approach he opened his arms wide. She walked straight into his embrace, burrowing her face into his shoulder. He gave her time to sniff his jacket, wondering with amusement if she would ever stop doing that and knowing that he didn't mind it one bit.

"So, how are things?" he asked her as they took their seats. The waitress brought the two coffees he'd ordered when Lisbon had texted him she was pulling into the parking lot. The sun was warm, but the breeze off of the river was cool and he knew coffee would hit the spot.

"Things are good, Virgil. Very good. How are things with you?"

"I'm getting married."

Her eyes widened in delight, and she laughed a real honest-to-goodness laugh.

"I'm happy for you."

"I'm pretty happy for me, too."

"Think it'll stick this time?" she teased him.

"It'll have to. Without that woman, I'd come completely unglued."

"Well, nobody would want that."

"Will you come?" he looked at her hopefully.

"Just say when," she assured. They continued to make small talk about the wedding, the latest case, and the changes taking place at the bureau in the wake of recent events. Virgil leaned back in his chair and looked her up and down, studying her relaxed expression and body language before he broached the next subject.

"How's it been with Jane gone?"

"Quiet. Peaceful. Relaxing. Less violent."

"No one getting punched in the nose, huh?"

"Nope." She laughed into her coffee cup.

"You miss it?"

She drew the cup away from her lips and looked out over the water.

"Every day."

Just as she spoke, her eye was caught by movement on the beach, and she took the last long drink of her coffee, draining the cup and setting it down on the table.

"Gotta go, Virgil. My date's here."

He chuckled at her and accepted her kiss on his cheek before he waved her away.

As she stepped onto the pier, Jane cleared the top stair of his climb from the beach, the cane clicking along the weathered wood with each step. She stood in place and let him come to her, watching him approach, one eye closed and the other squinted against the bright sun, her head tilted.

"Hey, creaky."

He took her in, from the messy updo down to her beautiful legs and platform pumps.

"Hello, gorgeous."

"And what do you think you're doing, walking on the beach? And up those stairs? You didn't drive yourself here, did you? You know your doctor—"

"Again with the nagging." He had reached her now and transferred his cane from his right hand to his left so he could circle his right arm around her waist and pull her against him. Before he could kiss her, she raised her hands to his chest and leaned back from him just enough to look into his eyes.

"Not nagging, just concerned. If you ever want to stop using that cane—"

"I kind of like it. Makes me look distinguished."

"Makes you look old and creaky and crusty." Her eyes lowered and traveled back and forth across his chest. "Along with these suits. Don't you ever think about wearing something different? I mean, do you need these anymore?"

His gaze followed hers, and he dropped his eyes to look down at himself—as much of himself as he could see down to where Lisbon pressed against him. He'd switched to the vested suits years ago for a lot of reasons. They distracted people, they were a far cry from what he wore before, they were good to hide behind, and they reminded him that everything in his life had changed. Most of that wasn't really relevant anymore. Not for the same reasons at any rate. But still . . .

"What do you want me to wear?"

"Something more . . . normal?"

"If you want me to dress like Cho, I've gotta tell you, my biceps won't have the same effect."

She smiled up at him. "Nobody's would. I want you to dress like you."

He looked down at his suit again. "I think this _is_ me. You don't like it?"

When he put it like that, oddly enough she found that she liked it just fine.

"Maybe vested suits in a better cut? And the odd _not_ blue or white shirt?" she suggested with a hint of temptation by way of flirtation.

"You're awfully free and easy with my money," he teased, unable to resist flirting back, just a little.

She laughed at him, sliding her fingers under the lapels of his jacket as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him lightly then murmur against his lips, "Do whatever you want."

She had said that to him more in the past month than she had in the more than seven years of their acquaintance. He hadn't grown tired of hearing it yet.

"Will you suit shop with me?'

"No." His eyes filled with disappointment. "But I'll come and sit while you suit shop."

He accepted that as an excellent compromise then looked down at her with concern when she shivered against him. Lowering his head, he whispered in her ear.

"I have a great idea to warm you up."

She chuckled and curled away from where his breath tickled her neck.

"You think all of your ideas are great."

"Yeah, but I'm one hundred percent certain this one will work."

"And nobody will get hurt?"

"Not if I do it right."

"You are incorrigible."

"And you like me that way."

"I like you to feed me. I'm hungry. We met for lunch, remember?"

"And there's no chance that's code for something else?"

"Not today, Jane. I wasn't kidding—I'm hungry."

"Hold me, hug me, kiss me, feed me. I had no idea you were so high maintenance, Lisbon."

"It's _my turn_. And seven years of catering to you? It would take at least that long for you to even the score. Twice that—no—_three_ times at least."

She poked his chest with her finger and turned to tuck herself under his left arm. He reached around her, squeezing her in his embrace as he transferred the cane back to his right hand before they walked toward the café.

"I'll be happy to test that theory, my dear. I promise, you'll love every minute of my score evening."

"Or end up shooting myself."

"You could have Cho do it. He's pretty handy at that."

She sighed up at him. "You're never going to get over it, are you?"

"He _shot_ me in the _knee_! I'll never be the same," he sulked, only half serious. All in all, things had turned out better than he could've hoped.

"Only to save your life. And to give us all a shot at Foley." She never referred to him by any other name the few times she spoke of him, and neither did anyone else in her presence. "How long do you intend to hold it against him?"

"Forever."

She wrinkled her nose at him.

"A year?"

She shook her head, nose still wrinkled.

"Six months?"

"One month."

"That's hardly enough—"

"One. Month. That's all I'm willing to put up with."

"You're no fun."

"You know better."

They had reached their favorite table, and the waitress greeted them with a smile.

"You two know what you want, or do you want a menu this time?"

"Just bring us two of my usual, Linda." Jane told her confidently. Linda walked away before Lisbon had a chance to respond.

"I might have wanted something different, you know." She looked down at the chair she was pulling out for him.

"I always know what you want, and you wanted my usual. I saw how you eyed it the last time."

"What makes you think I was eying the food?" She batted her eyelashes at him.

She had kissed him when he woke up in recovery in the hospital before he could get a word, question, complaint, demand or insult out. She'd been stealing his breath away ever since. He couldn't take his eyes off of her while she turned her attention to fussing over him, helping him get situated in his chair.

"All we're missing is a lap robe," she mumbled. He knew she really didn't like that cane.

"I promise I'll be good. And the therapist told me today I'd only need it for another three or four weeks."

She looked him in the eyes then, still bent forward where she'd been hovering over him.

"Really?" she asked, sounding intrigued. "Does that mean we can take our relationship to the next level?"

And his breath was gone again. He didn't want her to know he was a little less than completely confident in that area for several reasons—time, age, injury . . . past. But he assumed she'd already guessed.

"Yes," he seemed to consider it seriously, then, "I think it's high time we moved on to using each other's first name."

She laughed again and kissed him full on the mouth. He could do without the cane, but would he need an oxygen tank?

Lisbon straightened and thanked Linda who had just set a cup of steaming coffee in front of the chair to Jane's left. They were good customers, and she wasn't about to forget the lady's usual, no matter what her handsome man said.

Teresa pulled the chair close to the corner between them as she had done with his chair before he sat down. Jane watched her settle in and relax her head back, eyes closed as she reveled in the sun. He loved looking at her, but when she wasn't nearby the thing he missed most was being able to touch her. She was more tactile than he would have guessed, more welcoming of physical closeness, but she still liked to maintain some space at times. He reached out tentatively with one finger and stroked the back of her hand where it lay on the chair's arm. Eyes still closed, she smiled lazily and rotated her wrist until she could clasp his hand in hers, fingers entwined, her thumb tracing circles on his palm. He closed his eyes and reveled, too.

As often happened, Lisbon's thoughts went back to those days in the hospital. Jane had laid unconscious for two weeks, the doctors admitting after the first that they had no idea why he wasn't waking up. _Sometimes, after such emotional trauma, after such lengthy psychological duress_, they had said, _sometimes people just don't want to wake up_. A week later, and she hadn't given up, taking heart in hoping that his smoothed features meant he wasn't suffering pain or nightmare. Eleanor had sat with her often, careful about voicing her confidence in the man lying in the bed lest she engender false hope. In the end, Lisbon's longsuffering and Eleanor's certainty had been rewarded. Lisbon remembered the grateful tears spilling down her cheeks as she had taken his face in both her hands and kissed him with her heart on her lips. Jane remembered nothing but coming awake, a little confused as to his surroundings but very glad he had rejoined the land of the living. Though he had long denied his feelings for her even to himself and had never hoped that anything beyond friendly affection could be requited, that kiss had left little doubt that Lisbon's feelings for him went far beyond and above all he could have dreamed.

Linda returned to the table and paused before she announced their food's arrival, just watching them. They were the sweetest couple she'd ever seen—not the youngest, though they sure acted like it sometimes. She placed the identical plates in front of them and quietly walked away, not wanting to disturb them, always mindful of giving them the best possible and most friendly service. Besides the fact that she just plain liked them, the handsome man was her best tipper.


	19. Epilogue

**Thanks to everyone again for your support and encouragement and for being faithful to continue reading, including those reviewers to whom I was unable to respond: xanderseye, Anna, Jane Doe, jas, jasadin, sbrt, Blue, kate, Feist, glouton-mana, and Mentalistlover. Thanks so much to ALL who reviewed.**

**In answer to Jane Doe's question, I've written a multi-chapter trilogy that puts Jane & Lisbon together romantically eventually. If you haven't read that, it includes "End of the Beginning", "Somewhere from There", and "Where We Land". There's not another multi-chapter in the works, but who knows? Never say never.**

**The romantic in me thought there just wasn't enough fluff in this story. And we needed to see where developments in chapter 18 were heading. Hence, the epilogue.**

19. EPILOGUE

Jane had been back at the CBI for a whole two months now. He had left his apartment early that morning, hoping to beat Teresa in. He had progressed to _that_ next level alone. For some reason neither of them could discern, she just couldn't bring herself to call him Patrick . . . unless she was _very_ angry. He did everything in his power to keep from hearing it. It really didn't matter—it almost made him love her more. They had managed to progress together in other ways just fine. Turns out he needn't have worried for any of the reasons that had troubled him two months earlier. Lisbon had proven to be good medicine for all of his ills.

It was Thursday, and he had stopped at the bank of newpaper stands outside the building to pick up the weekly copy of the _Observer_, almost forgetting to remove the cane where he had hung it over his arm so he could resume his wounded act before he got to their floor.

He walked into her office only a little disappointed but not really surprised to find her already in. She looked up and greeted him with a smile as he presented his gifts, laying them on the desk in front of her one by one.

"Your coffee. Your muffin. Your newspaper."

He made a show of looking around before dropping a kiss on her lips. When Jane had returned to work, LaRoche had stated ambiguously that he didn't like professional to be clouded by personal—his way of saying he didn't want to know, didn't want to see, and wouldn't interfere if they kept it out of the office. It was amazing what compromises people were willing to make if one just attempted a modicum of good behavior.

He sat down in the chair across from her, and Teresa (He made certain to only call her that in his mind at work.) pulled a chunk off the muffin and put it in her mouth and chewed absentmindedly as she eagerly picked up the paper with her other hand. Opening the _Observer_ to the personals, she smoothed the paper out on her desk and began searching down the columns. It didn't take her long to find it. He watched her lips ease into a smile, knowing what she was reading. He had already seen it for himself before he folded the paper back to its original form.

_Glad to hear everything is well. Hope everyone's minding their manners. Looking forward to the next party. Susan._

Knowing it would be another month before her friend could come home and that things were already in the works for her to return to the CBI, Lisbon folded the paper shut and smoothed her hand along the creases. A thought suddenly occurred to her.

"I keep forgetting to ask—how did you know?"

He paused a moment. Lisbon hadn't liked it when she found out he'd gone through her desk. It was still a bit of a sore spot. And _he_ would be sore if she knew he knew the bottle of tequila no longer sat in the lower left drawer but that the false bottom was still in place. He could afford to let her have her secrets . . . now that he knew where she kept many of them.

For now, she had asked him a direct question, and he sighed over the effort it took to be honest when he knew she may not like the explanation.

"When I read Madeleine's letter—," he didn't miss the little pout but plunged ahead, "—I couldn't imagine her 'desperately seeking' anything. And for her to use the word 'observer' in that way, her sentence construction was so awkward—her use of the language is too easy and colorful for that. And when I saw the number written in your notebook—," the pout deepened to a near sulk, "—I paired it with possible prefixes until I got the _Sacramento Observer_.

It had been pretty clever actually, discreetly referring to a film where one character follows another through the personal ads and using a once-weekly local newspaper. He knew Madeleine was devious enough, but he was surprised Teresa had figured it out so quickly and used it so effectively.

"You're mentally patronizing me."

"I'm what?"

"You've got that smug little smile you wear when you're congratulating yourself for something _I've_ done, like I learned it from you. It had nothing to do with you. I could've figured that out without your influence."

"I didn't say—"

"You didn't have to."

She shifted her focus completely to her muffin and coffee. He squirmed a little, uncomfortable with the lack of attention. He would really have to stop underestimating her.

"When are you going to get rid of that?" She had decided she'd punished him enough and went on to the next thing, motioning at the cane as she swallowed a bite.

"I'm still a little—"

"You're still tormenting Cho. Making him bring you things, help you in and out of the car. And I saw you trip him yesterday. The month's been up for a while, you know."

"But I don't think he's—"

"Yes, he _has_ suffered enough. Now lose the cane."

He grunted low in his chest. He would never have guessed what it was like to have Teresa Lisbon's full consideration.

"And I know you've been in my drawer."

He jerked his eyes up to hers, but the stern tone of her voice was belied by the mischievous twinkle in those beautiful, sparkling jades. He relaxed, and she stood to circle the desk and stand in front of him. She stepped close enough to stand between his knees and bent down until her lips hovered so close to his that he could feel her warm breath, inhaling it as his mouth had dropped slightly open. He almost felt the flutter of her whisper against his tongue.

"You have no secrets."

He leaned in for a kiss, but she pulled away and headed toward the white couch that was made for two. His head swiveled to follow her movement, and when she sat on her end, crossing her legs right over left and looked over her shoulder, patting the space next to her, he rose and followed her dictate.

"You're wearing a skirt," he murmured as he sat down. It wasn't at all that he had just noticed. It's just that this was the best view he'd had of her legs since he came in.

"I've got depositions."

His eyes shot to hers and narrowed.

"With whom?" His voice was sharp edged and frosty.

"Oh, . . . Forrest . . . and Sam Burton. You remember Sam, don't you?" She let her voice wrap around the question like maple syrup.

He reached forward and laid his hand on her right knee, his thumb drawing circles against her skin.

"Yes, I do remember Burton," the name said with obvious distaste before his voice dropped so low that Lisbon could swear she felt it vibrate in her stomach. "Don't you have something else you could wear? Something more _functional_?"

"I want to look my best," her own voice answering with a seductive hum.

His fingers slid under the hem of her skirt and started up her thigh before her hand caught his, the fabric sandwiched between them.

"When's the deposition?"

They were both looking down at where her hand rested over his. Although she had managed to stop his upward progress, his fingertips still stroked the sensitive flesh.

"Teresa? . . . The deposition?"

"Hm? . . . Oh, two hours."

"Well, that's almost enough time." He was keeping an eye on her now, watching her reaction to his movements. "You know, the bed's still up in the attic."

She shot him an amused look that said "_Oh really_" before wrapping herself in that annoying professionalism she pulled out at the most inconvenient times.

Pressing her hand over his moving fingers, she reminded him, "Not at work, _Jane_."

He squeezed her thigh firmly and pulled at it. "Then don't wear skirts to work, _Lisbon_."

Her eyes went round, and she breathed at him, "Ever?"

"Not when you're going to be seeing Sam Burton," he answered firmly.

She swallowed and nodded once slowly, and he withdrew his hand and smoothed her skirt. She took a deep breath.

"I'm going to the bullpen. Short team meeting. You coming?" she asked, rising and looking down at him.

"No, I think I'll stay here and . . . collect myself."

She smirked. "You need help with that?"

He tsked at her. "And you look like such a lady."

She peered at him over her shoulder as she walked away. "Where would the fun be in that? Oh," she stopped at the door, running her hand slowly down one side of the frame, "and just for information's sake, . . . is there still a padlock on the inside of the attic door?"

She grinned triumphantly as she turned away, having heard the sharp intake of breath and barely audible groan, and ran straight into LaRoche. She rebounded from the impact, and he raised both hands to catch her elbows, steadying her. _So much for the two of them keeping it out of the office_. It was a lot harder looking the other way than he had imagined. What had he been thinking? Still, the solve rate was up and the lawsuits were down by over half.

"I just spoke with the AG," he told her, ignoring the blush that had seeped into her cheeks. "It seems they've been able to speed things up, and I'll be moving into the Director's office by the end of next week."

Lisbon looked into her office through the glass and scowled, and LaRoche unthinkingly followed her gaze to see Jane lying back on the couch, a pillow clasped over his face to cover his laughter. Her boss looked away, silently lamenting the fact that he was not equipped to handle this and, not for the first time, counting the days until Hightower would return.

"Sir?" Lisbon realized she'd not been paying close enough attention to his words.

"Me. Moving to the Director's office permanently. End of next week. Hightower will be back the following Monday."

"Oh . . . yes . . ." She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes clear and honest. "We'll miss you, Agent LaRoche."

He really believed she meant it. "Yes . . . well . . . carry on, Agent Lisbon."

He moved past her, grimacing at his choice of words as well as the whoop he heard from her office.

Jane raised himself just enough to turn and look over the arm of the couch into the bullpen. It didn't bother him when Rigsby and Cho both gave Lisbon looks of masculine appreciation. The darling's eyes were glued to the report she was reading from and didn't even realize. He watched her, cool and composed, the leader of her team—the ninja, the brute and the handmaiden. And him. In the office anyway. Privately they were on a little more equal footing.

He was struck, as he was at least a dozen times a day, by the knowledge that he did not deserve her or the life she'd brought to him. Nothing in his recent or long ago past warranted such happiness, such sheer exquisite joy at the prospect of just knowing he would see her when he woke up, either at the office or, most mornings, by just turning his head.

He had lost her once, come close to losing her for good. He wasn't such a fool to ever let that happen again. He had been lost himself, floundering, for eight years—for most of his life really, and Lisbon had found him and brought him home. He reached into his pocket and let his fingers brush against the velvet box there, the product of a six week-long search that had begun when he first told her he loved her over lunch. It hadn't bothered him that she hadn't said it back—it was soon after all, even by his standards. But six and a half hours later, she had looked up over their shared piece of tiramisu and returned the sentiment in a matter-of-fact way with a note of wonder mixed in, and he knew he wanted to say it and hear it every day for the rest of his life and didn't see the sense of waiting.

That and the certainty that they had ruined each other for anyone else started the quest for the perfect ring that had finally ended two weeks ago when, during the course of an investigation, he had stumbled across a unique, custom jewelry shop in San Diego. He had carried the box in his pocket since he'd driven down over the weekend to pick up the ring, a delicate braid of three gem-encrusted white gold strands—one for his past, one for hers and one symbolizing the life they would share together.

And, yes, it may be soon for a ring as well, and others might think _too_ soon, but he just couldn't see it that way. They had, after all, been several years and many moments in the making. And if Lisbon didn't want it to be an outright proposal just yet, she could consider it a promise. One of the many he fully intended to keep.

**END**


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